Sleepless
by Lomonaaeren
Summary: HPDM and HPDM. Being an Auror didn't work out, so Harry is in training to be a lawyer. Then two things happen at once: Draco Malfoy approaches Harry to help him with Quidditch, and Harry starts visiting an alternate universe in his sleep. COMPLETE.
1. Into Nightmare

**Title: **Sleepless

**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.

**Pairings: **Harry/Draco, Harry/AU!Draco

**Rating: **R

**Warnings:** Violence, sex, angst, manipulation, profanity, alternate universes. Ignores the epilogue.

**Summary: **Being an Auror didn't work out, so Harry is in training to be a lawyer and actually enjoying it. Then two things happen at once: Draco Malfoy approaches Harry to help him with Quidditch, and Harry starts visiting an alternate universe in his sleep.

**Author's Notes: **This is going to be a novel-length story. Other than that, I have no idea how long it will be. It could be anywhere between twenty and forty chapters.

**Sleepless**

_Chapter One—Into a Nightmare_

"Well, I don't understand how it can be an exception." Harry bent over the parchment in front of him and frowned fiercely at it. He could feel sweat forming on his brow and knew it would spot the parchment if he didn't move. But he didn't want to lose track of what he was reading right now, which he always did if he moved, so he twitched his head enough that the sweat landed harmlessly on the table.

Hermione leaned over his shoulder, sighed, and stuck her fingers into the middle of the next long paragraph that Harry hadn't looked at yet. "It's an exception because of the complicating factors that Wineberger introduces here. You can't try someone who was under the influence of Veela allure in the same way that you can try someone who was under the influence of the Imperius Curse, because Veela allure doesn't actually take away your free will; it just brings your impulses to the surface. You can order someone to murder someone else under the Imperius Curse, and they'll do it, even if they would never practice violence ordinarily. But you wouldn't kill a rival for the Veela's attention under the influence of the allure unless you had the capacity for murder."

Harry scowled and folded his arms. He had to admit that made sense, unlike far too much in the law books that Hermione was having him study, but—"It still sounds to me like you're trying them for their character, not for breaking the law," he muttered. "Without the allure, maybe they never _would _have done that."

Hermione gave him a shrug and a small smile. "Well, the person under the Imperius Curse is still tried, too. The difference is that they're more likely to be acquitted."

"Oh. Yeah." Harry closed his eyes. He had learned about trials for use of the Unforgivables last week. His head was pounding and bursting with information, and he sometimes felt as if his brain would leak out his ears.

_When it does, they'll find writing on it._

"Come on," Hermione said, and touched his shoulder sympathetically. "We should go home. Ron probably has dinner waiting, and you've had enough of the law books for one day."

Harry gave her a look of disbelief—directed, he had to admit, more at the pile of law books in her arms than at her face.

Hermione flushed. "Well, I know how to deal with the addictive effects of reading," she said, hitching her chin up. "You don't. It was a passion that came to you late in life."

Harry shuddered dramatically. "Please don't say that word when you've just been talking about Ron, Hermione. I don't need to know about your sex life."

She looked as if she was thinking about trying to hit him, but her arms were too full, and in the end she shook her head at him and went to lock the door of her office. Harry made sure that the windows were locked; any amount of people were mad to get in here, not because there was anything valuable in this building but because the Great Harry Potter worked here.

_Or should it be "studies"_? It was going to be a year or more before Harry was prepared to qualify as a lawyer. It was like being a Hogwarts student again.

But it was still the right decision, Harry thought as he followed Hermione downstairs, past doors that led to a public relations office for the joke shop, a room that Hermione rented out to down-on-their-luck advocates of magical creature relations, and a small office that Bill sometimes kipped out in when he was on his way to or from Gringotts (or, more to the point, when he had stopped over to give Harry and Hermione instructions on goblin law and it had got late). Harry hadn't been happy trying to become an Auror. They would have kept him from field work, and by the time that he'd finished training, the most important Dark wizards from the war would be mopped up. There was no one who _needed _him.

In law, there were people who would. The Death Eater trials were done, but they had seen their share of injustice as well as justice. Harry wanted to prevent that next time. He couldn't clear everyone with personal testimony, no, so he would see what else he could do to fight on the side of the accused innocents.

His "saving-people thing," Hermione still called it, rolling her eyes. And Ron had started talking about Harry's need to be needed like it was some sort of pet, requiring regular care and feeding.

Harry didn't mind. Law was working out because his stubbornness and desire to help was carrying him through the dense prose and all those "exceptions" that Hermione was so fond of pointing out to him. If it took him longer than it took her, well, that didn't matter. Hermione was out there now. Harry liked following her into the courtroom, watching her in action, and then telling her what he would have done differently himself. Hermione liked the critique, even if she disagreed vehemently with half his suggestions.

_No, probably more like three-quarters, _Harry thought, grinning as he remembered their last row. Ron had prudently gone to bed when it was midnight and Harry and Hermione were still shouting obscure legal terms at each other. That sense of community with his best friend wasn't something Auror training could give Harry.

But Auror training had given him some things, and Harry touched Hermione's elbow and nodded towards the doorway of the building opposite when they got out on the street. She nodded back and mouthed, "Death Eater?"

"Can't tell yet," Harry breathed, drawing his wand. On the other hand, most people with a legitimate reason to seek them out didn't linger in doorways this late.

"Of course not," Hermione said, and said no more as Harry stepped around her and walked slowly towards the shadow that stretched from the doorway.

The shadow moved as he watched, and then the man who cast it stepped into the middle of the street and lifted his hands. He had a mocking smile on his face, but Harry could almost pretend, if he tried, that it wasn't directed at him and Hermione. "Easy, Potter. I'm here to ask you a favor, nothing more."

Harry paused, breath expelled hard from his nostrils as he stared at Malfoy. He had a set of formal Quidditch robes on, though it took Harry a minute to identify them; the Ministry had added a few new Quidditch teams to the League. _Yes, that's right, the Exeter Eagles. They're the only ones that have that cross-eyed bird on the front._

"Fine," he said, and he knew his voice was curt, and he couldn't help it. Malfoy had taken his acquittal during the trials with nothing more than a nod, as if he had always thought he would get off, and turned away when Harry had come up to speak with him. Harry had ended up tossing his wand at his back and walking away. Hermione had told him that he couldn't expect Malfoy to be _enthusiastic _about needing Harry's testimony, but Harry would have settled for common courtesy. "Hermione's right here." He started to step aside. Hermione, as the fully trained lawyer, would be the one Malfoy had to speak to.

"You're the one I need, Potter."

Harry stared. Oddly enough, Malfoy's face showed no resentment of the fact he'd just proclaimed. He simply leaned one arm on thin air—and how did he do that without falling over?—and regarded Harry with the air of someone determined to wait until Doomsday for compliance if he needed to.

Harry shook his head to banish the image that wanted to come to mind when he thought about that. "Fine. What?"

Malfoy looked around as though he thought this small side-alley in Hogsmeade would be filled with people longing to know his secrets. But Harry had to admit that it might be filled with people wanting to know _his _secrets, so perhaps the caution wasn't unwarranted. "You might have known I was recently taken on by the Eagles," Malfoy said, and touched the middle of his chest.

"I heard," Hermione said, her voice warm and sincere. Harry knew he would never be able to do that in a thousand years, but he would have to learn if he wanted to go into the courtroom. He had to be gracious in the face of defeat, Hermione had told him. "Congratulations."

Malfoy ignored her, staring at Harry. "But they don't want to let me play," he said, and his voice was thick. "Not good enough. I'm being kept as reserve Seeker only."

Harry shook his head. "I don't see what I can do for you. I won't go to a professional Quidditch team and pressure them to put you on the pitch."

Malfoy gritted his teeth for a single moment before his face smoothed back into its smirky self. "But I'm better than the man who plays right now. He's already ruining himself with drink and too much attention on his girlfriend instead of the game. I _know _that I'll be a Seeker long past the time that he's retired with wrists sprained from wanking."

Harry barked with laughter, and then caught himself and scowled. Malfoy's smirk turned to a smile for some reason.

Harry shook his head. "There's still nothing I can do. I would have had to have seen him play and then be convinced there was actually some injustice. And there's no guarantee that your coach would listen to me anyway." Some people had taken violently against Harry after the war, especially since he'd had the bad taste to quit the Auror program.

Malfoy shook his head in return. "I want you to play with me," he said. "Train me. You're the only Seeker I've found who can make me play my best. I look lackluster in comparison to this idiot Falming when we're on the pitch only because he doesn't challenge me. When Falming retires, I'll want to be so good that there's no way that they can justify keeping me in reserve and hiring someone else as their playing Seeker."

Harry blinked and looked more closely at Malfoy. He was pale and solemn, his attention fixed on Harry, both smirk and smile gone.

Harry wished he could turn and ask Hermione if it was only him, or if Malfoy was making _sense_. But he had to make some decisions for himself.

"You could find someone else," Harry said at last. "You're among professionals. I'm sure someone else would be happy to help you improve your game in return for—well, in return for having a better opponent, if Falming's as awful as you say."

Malfoy laughed harshly. "You don't understand much about professional Quidditch, if you think they value the challenge over the damage they would be doing to their own teams in the future, by helping me become good," he said. "Besides, I don't put it past them to tip me off my broom because of their own prejudices. You don't play for a team, you're skilled, and I trust your Gryffindor honor."

"What are you offering Harry in return, Malfoy?" Hermione asked.

Malfoy spread his hands. "Nothing but my friendship."

Harry laughed again, but Malfoy didn't laugh with him. He just watched Harry with intense eyes and said nothing. Harry fought the impulse to step behind Hermione. He was a big boy now, a lawyer-in-training, and he knew there were people out there who would look at him more severely than this.

Malfoy didn't even look particularly severe, Harry decided at last. He looked as if he knew what a pathetic offer this was to make, at least for someone who had been Harry's Slytherin rival in school, but since he had nothing else Harry could possibly want, he had to go ahead with it.

"But you wouldn't," Harry said at last, when he realized that they would get nowhere unless he took this ridiculous offer seriously. "I mean, you wouldn't be my friend if I helped you. You would probably be looking for ways to tip me off my broom the minute I surpassed you."

"Oh, would I?" Malfoy asked. He jerked his head at Hermione. "Given that I've asked you this in front of your friend, there would surely be an investigation into the causes of your death if you died while you were playing opposite me."

Hermione sniffed. "There would be an investigation into Harry's death no matter what the circumstances," she said. "Ron and I wouldn't be able to escape suspicion for that, if it happened on our watch."

"Yes, I think you're right," Malfoy said. He moved closer, and Harry watched his wand hand, but Malfoy continued not to cast curses at him. "Come, Potter—or should I call you Harry? If we're going to be working closely together, then I should."

Harry sighed. "It just doesn't seem like you, Malfoy," he said. "That you're joking around or that you have something grander planned and this is the means to that end, I can believe, yeah. But that you would approach me and ask me honestly for what you want? No, that's not within the bounds of possibility."

Malfoy hesitated, then gave him a painful smile. "And I can understand why you're having difficulty believing me," he murmured. "But I promise—if that promise is worth anything to you—that I've changed since the war."

Again he moved closer. He was ignoring Hermione now, Harry thought. There might have been no one in the street but the two of them. And his eyes were brighter and wilder, and his hand actually trembled as if he would reach out and lay it on Harry's arm. Harry wondered what would happen if he did. He wasn't entirely sure how _he _would react, never mind Hermione. There was something intriguing about Malfoy like this, something more fragile and intimate that Harry had never expected to see.

"I would be stupid to hurt you if you agreed to help me," Malfoy said, voice a whisper and a rustle in the shadows. "And I mean it. I have nothing to offer you except my gratitude. That might be worth something someday, but really, right now, with my name on the bottom tier of people despised by the righteous? It's shite. I depend on your honor. I trust you more than I trust some of the people I've had at my back all my life, because I know what they would sell me for. You don't have a price."

"Should I be insulted by that?" Harry murmured, deliberately trying to break the tension that Malfoy was establishing between them.

Malfoy didn't smile, and the joke fell flat. Harry looked away and cleared his throat uneasily. "There's no good reason why I _should_, Malfoy. My training as a lawyer takes up most of my time. When I'm not in the office or reading law books, then I'm following Hermione into courtrooms and watching how she works. I don't think I could do that and also play opposite you at the same time."

"You should try, Harry," Hermione said. Harry saw the jolt that ran through Malfoy when she spoke. He really did seem to have forgotten that she was there. For some reason, though Harry thought he had to be insane, that made him like Malfoy better. "Remember what I said about the addiction to books that overcomes you once you start feeling it? I would be nothing but an obsessed bookworm if I didn't have you and Ron and the other Weasleys to keep me steady. We can try to be that for you, but we have in the past, and I don't think it's working."

Harry glared steadily at her. That was a reference to his breakup with Ginny, and he had tried to keep Hermione and Ron out of that. They were friends with both of them; it wasn't fair to drag them into the middle of the increasingly violent quarrels he and Ginny had had.

"You heard the lady, Potter." Malfoy was smirking again, but his eyes maintained that intense look. "You need balance in your life, and who better than me to provide it?"

"If you trust me," Harry said, deciding that he would treat this seriously exactly as long as he had to to convince Hermione that it was mad, "then I don't trust you."

Malfoy shrugged fluidly at him. "Understandable. That doesn't mean we need to argue. We can build trust over time. And remember what I said about why it would be stupid for me to kill you, and rely on that to keep you safe in the air."

"Impulses of revenge and anger don't necessarily obey common sense," Harry said, staring into his eyes. "I've worked enough cases with Hermione by now to have seen that. Dead is no less dead because it's a death that you'd think wouldn't have happened."

"I've changed," Malfoy said, leaning forwards on his toes this time, as if he would fall over and bring Harry down with him. "Give me a chance to demonstrate that."

Harry looked again at Hermione, but she beamed and nodded him forwards as though everything was wonderful. Harry sighed hard enough to make his teeth rattle and held his hand out to Malfoy.

Malfoy clasped it. His skin felt too-warm and sweaty, and Harry flinched back, but Malfoy maintained the handshake when Harry would have dropped it, still studying him. _By the expression on his face, _Harry thought in irritation, _anyone would think that he was the hero, and I was the war criminal barely acquitted._

"Thank you, Potter," Malfoy said, his voice soft and slightly hoarse. "I promise you that you won't have the chance to regret this." He turned and vanished into the darkness.

Harry looked at Hermione with his eyebrow raised. "Is it me, or was that last sentence strangely worded?"

"You're being too suspicious," Hermione said firmly, and herded him back to the house that they all shared, lecturing him on the way about people who needed to reform, people who were trying to reform, and the duty of all right-thinking citizens to help them both. Harry went to bed with his ears ringing and the conviction that he would have preferred to stay up late and study law to that.

* * *

He was in the middle of a crowd.

Well, he often was. But for once, they didn't seem to be focused on him.

Harry blinked and looked around. He was in the middle of a large room that had neutral-looking walls, so it might have been either St. Mungo's or a receiving room in Hogwarts, the way they had rebuilt it after the war, to accommodate more frequent Ministry inspections. But he didn't think it was, given that the people around him were a mixture of all ages and types of wizards: older witches in horrible hats with fruit on them, sober and staid Ministry workers in perfectly pressed robes, children who looked like they should still be in school clutching their parents' hands and wearing awed expression, and a few scruffy types with patched robes and evil grins that Harry thought would have been chased out of most gatherings.

Presumably this one, whatever it was, allowed their attendance.

_Whatever it was._

Harry shook his head and pushed forwards. The crowd in front of him swayed back and forth, sometimes retreating from and sometimes closing in on the cage on a raised platform in the center of the room, as if they didn't know whether they wanted to stand near it or not. So Harry was able to wriggle and duck through gaps until he got close to the platform.

It only then occurred to him to wonder how he had got here, given that the last thing he remembered was lying down in his own bed. He scratched his head, glanced around again, and decided that he was having a very realistic dream.

Given that, he probably didn't _have _to care about anything here, including the reason so many people were packed into this room.

But he could care if he wanted, so he turned to glance at the platform again.

A second later, he was choking on his own outrage. In the cage were Malfoy, his father and his mother, their wrists chained together, their bodies bearing marks of bruises and starvation. Harry felt a sympathetic ache under his ribs where he had suffered from the treatment the Dursleys had inflicted on him. You would lie awake in the darkness, and all that would concern you was the emptiness of your stomach.

Several other people stepped up onto the platform. Harry directed his hate at them and saw a wizard with long silver hair and beard in a set of starry robes that might have rivaled Dumbledore's, a tall witch dressed all in white, and—

Harry blurted, "_Neville_?" but it was drowned under the noise of the cheering from the crowd. Befuddled, Harry stared some more.

This was Neville, yes, but taller and more confident and more good-looking than Harry had ever seen him. He nodded at the crowd as if used to their adulation and turned his head a little. His fringe swayed aside and revealed a perfectly circular scar.

Harry swallowed. _I bet—I bet he's the Boy-Who-Lived here. I never existed, or I died when I was a baby, or—or something._

It was a strange dream, especially when the witch began to speak. Harry shook his head and listened to the fantasies of his own mind, wondering what Hermione would say they said about him.

"We have made our decision," the witch said. She had a voice like a bell and a sweet smile, but shrewd eyes. "With the help of our Savior—" She nodded at Neville, and he waved back to the watchers, which meant that the cheering drowned the next words she tried to speak. The witch waited with a tolerant smile until some silence had returned and then continued, "We have decided that these Death Eaters deserve no mercy if their guilt is so obvious to all that no one will defend them. Their execution will therefore take place immediately."

The baying of the crowd in response to that announcement reminded Harry of hounds on the scent. He put his hands over his ears and forced his attention down into himself until the sense of the witch's words became clear to him.

Then he dropped his hands and bounded onto the platform.

The witch, the wizard, and Neville all turned to stare at him. Harry looked hard at their faces, but no one showed any recognition of him. _I probably don't exist here at all, whether I'm the Boy-Who-Lived or not_, he thought.

"Who are you?" the witch asked, with a cock of her eyebrows that made Harry feel like a misbehaving child.

But there was more at stake here than his dignity. Harry walked swiftly across the platform until he could stand in front of the cages, his arms folded.

"My name is Harry Evans," he said, and his voice shook. He couldn't help that. "I'm a lawyer, and you're wrong about no one defending the Malfoys. _I'm _going to defend them."


	2. The Barrister Unheralded

Thank you for all the reviews!

_Chapter Two—The Barrister Unheralded_

For long moments, Harry thought that no one would ever say anything again. The entire crowd seemed to have been struck dumb by his words. The air was still. Neville watched him with a gaping mouth, the Malfoys were still as if already dead behind him, and the wizard with the silver beard clutched it like a lifeline.

The witch with the bell-like voice cleared her throat delicately, and started everything around them into motion again. "Mr. Evans," she said. "I've never heard of you. Certainly, if you want to defend the Malfoys, then you may. But we would need to see your credentials."

Harry met her gaze with a solid glare while he thought furiously. He didn't know what the state of things was here, whether his parents were alive or whether anyone would remember Lily Evans. That was why he had used the name Evans instead of Potter; it would be harder to associate him with anyone.

But one thing he had learned since he started his law training was that lies didn't always have to make sense. Hermione had lamented over and over to him that wizards lacked _logic_, and Harry had seen that in the courtrooms. Archaic procedures that made no sense, loopholes in the laws, precedents based on a romantic tale…there were plenty of those scattered like unexpected grains of gold among the commonplace dirt of most laws.

For once in his life, Harry was going to make the wizarding world's insane expectations work for him. He puffed out his chest and said in an important hiss, "I come from a long line of Muggleborn wizards who educated their own children at home. We never wished to join a world so bigoted and faulty in understanding." He jerked his head at the cage that held the Malfoys. "Condemning even the guilty without a fair trial comes from bigotry."

The witch tapped her lips with her finger, a look in her eyes that said she didn't believe him. But before she could speak, Neville interrupted. "Why defend the Malfoys if you aren't part of the wizarding world, then?" His fingers had tightened on his wand, Harry noted. He resolved to keep an eye on that. If this world's Neville had really defeated Voldemort, then he would be a much better fighter than the one Harry knew.

"Because it's finally gone far enough," Harry answered. "You can't find my family through me; they've taken precautions against that." _True enough, when they're in another world and all dead anyway. _"They tell me that I'm young and idealistic and need to learn detachment, but I won't learn that when it means letting innocent people die."

"You can't have followed the news closely, if you think them innocent," the wizard with the silver beard announced in a surprisingly deep voice.

"They still need their guilt _proven_," Harry said steadily. "You can't frighten or freeze me out of that belief."

The witch smiled, for some reason, and exchanged glances with Neville. Harry watched closely. He thought he was correct that they ran things jointly around here. The wizard had to be on the platform for God knew what reason—he was probably a representative of the Wizengamot—but he didn't have any idea what went on over and behind his head.

"We would still need some reason to allow you to defend them, instead of another member of your no-doubt extensive family," the witch said, and turned back to him. "Why not call on someone older, someone more acquainted with the wizarding world? You look as if you were a contemporary of our Savior here."

"If he saved the world at a younger age than I am right now, why not trust me?" Harry asked glibly. "The worst I can do is mess up, and you won't care about that, since you don't care about the Malfoys anyway."

The witch hesitated and once again looked at Neville. Neville took his turn to step forwards. "Mr. Evans," he said kindly.

_Neville is so different in this world, _Harry admitted to himself, uneasy. _I don't know what he'll do or say next._

Then he wanted to laugh at himself, hysterically. It wasn't as though Neville could hurt him, no matter what he said. This wasn't another world; this wasn't a vision of the way things could have been, the way the Mirror of Erised had shown him. This was a _dream_. Harry would wake up soon and carry no wounds. He probably wouldn't even remember this.

The notion filled him with a giddy confidence, and he gave Neville a glare of contempt that this Boy-Who-Lived couldn't have received all that often. Neville blinked and retreated a step. "You did say your name was Evans?" he added.

"Yes," Harry said. "Harry Evans." He wondered if he should say something about the lightning scar, and then decided not to. Neville and the witch would recognize it or not, and they could say something about it if they wanted. Harry didn't think they would want to in front of a crowd.

_They can't do anything to me if they do realize that it's a curse scar. _Harry fought the urge to stick his tongue out. As long as he was taking the Malfoys' plight seriously, he had to take the notion that he could cause them harm seriously.

"You don't quite understand what we have here," Neville said. He reached out and put a hand on Harry's shoulder. It felt heavy, and Harry wanted to shrug it off, but Neville was speaking in a slow manner that suggested he thought _Harry _was slow, and Harry would have to deal with that first. "These are condemned criminals. Hundreds of witnesses agree that they did the crimes they are accused of. You can't help them even if we did admit you as their defender, and that's against the rules." He flashed Harry a smile that he must have practiced on hundreds of people, hundreds of times.

"What about the Good Stranger Exception?" Harry asked, his heart almost pounding out of his chest.

He had the pleasure of seeing Neville hesitate and frown. He glanced sideways at the witch despite visibly trying not to do so, and then murmured, "The what?"

The witch half-bowed her head, in the manner Harry had seen some duelists use with a superior opponent, and murmured, "Very good, Mr. Evans. It seems you have been trained in law, however much I must doubt your story." She turned to Neville and nodded. "The Good Stranger Exception is based on an occurrence many years ago, when a centaur offered to become a barrister for an accused wizard who had no defender. It turned out that evidence used to condemn that wizard had been set up by his own family, and they had used the Imperius Curse to ensure that no one would have sympathy for him. The Good Stranger Exception has remained in force because we can never be sure when the force of public opinion might actually be manipulated, thanks to the presence in our world of spells that can command the mind and memory." She looked at Harry thoughtfully.

Harry tried not to stare. _Shit. She's dangerous._

"Oh," Neville said blankly. Then he frowned. "But since we know that everyone really _does _hate the Malfoys, do we have to let him go through with it?"

"We have to," the witch said. "It doesn't matter what we think of it; the fact remains that they deserve the chance, and so does he. If he falters at the end, that's between him and his clients." She turned around and held out her hand. "Welcome to the regular wizarding world, Mr. Evans. I hope you stay. We could use someone with your courage and compassion in our ranks."

Harry gripped her hand. He could feel the platform beneath him spinning dizzily, and this time, that dizziness didn't come from the realization that he could essentially do anything here and it wouldn't affect him. "What's your name, ma'am?"

The witch smiled and kissed the back of his hand, barely brushing her lips over his knuckles. "Estelle Mondragaron, but you might as well call me Discipula." She saw Harry frown, and smiled more broadly. "It's the Latin term for student. It implies that I'm always learning. And oh, I am. Everything I learn teaches me more about the breadth of my ignorance. I will be a student forever."

* * *

Harry opened his eyes with a gasp. It took him a moment to figure out why he was lying down instead of standing up, and where Neville and the cage with the Malfoys in it and the silver-bearded wizard and Mondragaron had gone.

_I—shite. That was a weird bloody dream._

Harry sat up and raked his hand through his hair, frowning. He must have kicked out in his sleep, because his leg ached. He reached down and massaged it, while wondering why in the world he would have dreamed something like that. It had been as intense as some of the visions he'd got from Voldemort, but his scar didn't ache. And he'd been in control of his own body in that dream, too, not looking through someone else's eyes. Besides, his mind had created a coherent backstory for that dream. There was no reason _why _it had to be so, but it had happened anyway.

Harry shook his head briskly and stretched. _Maybe it was my mind's way of telling me that I have to be nicer to Malfoy._

"Harry, are you awake?" Hermione knocked on his door, and Harry smelled breakfast cooking in the next moment. "Ron wants to talk to you about Malfoy." She opened the door and popped her head in. "A conspiracy theory," she added under her breath. "Try not to pay any attention to it."

Harry nodded and smiled, waiting until she had ducked out of the room before he went to shower. He didn't think he would have as much trouble ignoring Ron's paranoid words as he would have had yesterday, and oddly enough, his dream was to blame for that.

The Death Eater trials had ended with the Malfoys free, but they could so easily have gone the other way. They almost had. Harry imagined them condemned to the Dementors' Kiss, or to at least standing up, shackled, in a cage, while a crowd bayed for their death. That last picture was like a memory. The dream hadn't faded at all.

_I'll try to be nice to Malfoy, _Harry promised himself as he stepped into the shower and tilted his head forwards so that the water could cascade down the nape of his neck. _That could have been him._

* * *

"Fuck, Potter, what have you been _eating_ to give you a stomach like that?"

Harry glared at Malfoy. He didn't know where the berk got off harping on his weight; it wasn't like he could see anything of Harry's body anyway beneath the bulky professional Quidditch robes. Malfoy had thrust the robes at him the moment Harry came up carrying his broom, because "that will make it look more like it's real."

"God knows I'll need a stomach of cast iron to deal with your insults," Harry snapped back, and then turned and surveyed the pitch Malfoy had brought him to. He thought it must be a place the Eagles rented, unless there was less money behind the new teams than he had supposed. The grass was ragged and ill-cut, and the Keepers' poles bore the results of late, desperate polishing. At least a circle of trees surrounded it, and there were anti-Muggle wards everywhere, as well as more ordinary wards that warned off intruders. Harry didn't have to worry about word of his presence here getting back to the papers.

_Quickly, anyway._

Malfoy had said nothing since his last insult, Harry realized. He turned around. It would be like the git to have tumbled off his broom to his death in that short interval and put the onus on Harry to avoid being tried for murder.

Instead, Malfoy was studying him with more interest than he had ever shown before. Then he clapped, slowly. Harry focused on his long, slender hands and thought of the way he probably clapped at games between two rival Quidditch teams when he was watching instead of playing.

"Oh, very good," Malfoy said softly, eyes glinting. "This might not be the utter wasteland of conversation I had envisioned."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I can offer you any insult you want," he said. "And the price of peace is simple. Let me out of this ridiculous bargain, and you don't have to hear any more of them."

"Do you really think so little of your skills as all that?" Malfoy was looping above the right side of the pitch, suddenly, although Harry had never seen him turn his broom. He spoke as casually as he had when they were straight side-by-side, compelling Harry to speed up some more to hear him. "You seemed confident in them when we were in school, or you wouldn't have dared to challenge me."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Need I remind you that I got put on the team a year before you did? It wasn't about challenging you. I didn't know McGonagall would put me on the team instead of expel me at first, and then it was another way to fit in."

Malfoy snapped his head around and stared at Harry with a devouring interest that seemed out of all proportion to the words. "Really," he said.

It wasn't a question. Harry was already regretting having told Malfoy so much, though. He shrugged. "That was a long time ago, and although I've kept busy since school, I haven't played Quidditch. You told me yourself there was a difference between school and professional Quidditch. Why should I be a good opponent for you?"

Malfoy smiled again, for some reason, and murmured, "Watch this." He opened his hand, and the Snitch concealed in it soared into the air.

Harry watched it go, assuming that Malfoy would dart after it and show him how fast he could catch it. But when he looked to the side, it was to see Malfoy squatting on his broom, holding a watch and an expression of weary disapproval.

"You're supposed to _chase_ it, Potter," he said. "And you've let six seconds go by already. Seven."

Harry gritted his teeth and flung himself into the pursuit. Yes, he thought this was stupid, and he wished that Malfoy had chosen someone else. But he still couldn't let the Snitch simply go in front of a challenge like that and feel good about himself. There was such a thing as pride.

_Yes, and pride can kill you if you let it._

Harry kept his eyes fixed on the little golden ball singing and darting from side-to-side, and didn't let that second acknowledgment into his thoughts. The ball was even crazier than a regular Snitch, he thought. To the side, and then up and down, and then around to the right and the left, spinning like a top on a marble floor. But it never soared away from the level Harry was chasing it at, as if it had an allergy to going nearer to the ground. Harry finally flew up next to it and held out his hand.

The Snitch spiraled down at once, as if it had an allergy to his hand, too. Harry, barely aware of what he did, only knowing that it was right, spun himself around the broom, hung upside-down, and cupped his hands as though he was waiting for water to fall into them.

The Snitch smacked home, and though it immediately tried to leave again, Harry closed his fingers tight. A sharp shiver of satisfaction ran through him. He sat up, shaking his head, and telling himself he had to stop feeling that soon. If Malfoy saw it, he would waste no time in tearing Harry's fragile confidence to pieces. He hadn't done _that _well. And Harry no longer played Quidditch. He had no reason to locate his sense of self-worth in the game.

Still, when he turned around again, it was to see Malfoy's eyes locked on him. He was holding the watch up. Harry flew back down towards him, wiping some sweat from his forehead. It must have taken longer than it had felt like it had. Time in the air was subjective, though, he knew that. It either stretched or limped along. "How long?" he panted.

"Two minutes," Malfoy said. "Not counting the time you wasted watching it." He shut the watch and stared at Harry in a fashion that prevented Harry from making the retort he wanted to. "You're beautiful when you fly."

Harry flushed and then told himself that Malfoy was only using those words as a setup for an insult. The best thing he could do was to steal his enemy's thunder. Malfoy leaned forwards yet further, his eyes wide and filled with something that Harry thought looked almost like tears, and Harry tossed the Snitch into his face.

Malfoy yelped and reeled back. The Snitch darted over his head and then went off to dance triumphantly through one of the Keepers' hoops. Harry grinned at him and turned to watch the gleam.

"Come, come, Malfoy," he said. "You'll have to get better than that if you want to catch the Snitch in a _real _game."

Malfoy brushed past him with a murderous glare. Harry laughed at him. That made Malfoy stiffen up and down his back as though wasps were stinging him and huff away with a sharp turn of the broom.

Harry followed him, shaking his head and wondering what Malfoy had wanted from him. Harry was more valuable to him in the character of a rival than a friend, surely. A friend wouldn't teach Malfoy how to play Quidditch, wouldn't bring that edge to the game that Malfoy said he wanted.

* * *

"Hermione, what do you think would have happened if Neville was the Boy-Who-Lived?"

Harry hadn't really meant to ask the question. But the dream had been preying on his mind since he came back from the practice with Malfoy, which had ended with Malfoy beating him soundly. Harry was leaning on the couch in their house, staring at the ceiling and wondering what would have happened if he could exchange that triumphant Malfoy for the broken, defeated one he had seen in his dream.

Not that he would want to, of course. Even Malfoys deserved a second chance, and Harry was grateful that their family had had a competent defense in his world. But still, the parallels couldn't be far from the surface of his mind.

And he had learned in the past few months that Hermione really was the most brilliant person he knew, not just the most brilliant person at homework he knew.

When he glanced up, he saw that Hermione was sitting on the edge of her couch in the living room, the squashy red-and-gold one. Her expression was painfully earnest. Harry blinked. He hadn't expected her to give this so much consideration.

Ron spoke before she could. He was sprawled on _his _couch, the bright scarlet one that Harry had told him more than once clashed with his hair. Ron always argued that Harry didn't know the first thing about fashion, and anyway, Ginny had bought this couch for him, and she wouldn't deliberately choose something that would also clash with _her _hair.

(Harry wasn't so sure about that).

"We would all have been doomed," Ron said lazily, opening and closing his eyes as if he wanted to count how many blinks he could fit into a minute. "Poor old Nev wasn't made to be a hero like you, Harry."

"Harry wasn't _made _to be a hero, either," Hermione said, frowning at Ron as if he had said something distasteful. Her fingers were twisted together. Harry had to wonder if his question had touched on some secret anxiety of her own. Hermione was pretty good at separating the real and the theoretical, most of the time. "That was the training he went through, and the way he was raised."

"Oh, God, not another nurture-nature debate," Harry said. He didn't bother to hide his exasperation. Ron had decided, or pretended to decide, since the war, that people were born either good or evil, and Hermione always argued with him. "Please."

Both of them ignored him. Ron pointed a finger at Hermione and wagged it back and forth. "Neville would still have been raised by his grandmother even if he was the Boy-Who-Lived. Dumbledore couldn't have taken him away from his relatives the way he took Harry away from the wizarding world. And he would have been timid. You _really _think that someone who took a whole year to become as brave as Harry was right away could have saved us?"

"You don't believe things like that," Hermione muttered. "You only think you do. Neville would have risen to the occasion."

"He had Auror parents, I know," Ron said, as if that was the point Hermione was making. "But blood doesn't always run true. He also had lots of timid relatives. And he was a pure-blood. He would have grown up either timid or with people worshipping him all the time, and You-Know-Who's spies would have an easier time getting to him, because he was in the wizarding world."

"Your argument sounds more as if you're on my side," Hermione said, with a faint smile.

"No, it doesn't."

Hermione met Harry's eyes and shook her head. Harry knew why. Since the war, Ron had decided that the way to get over the pain of Fred's death and others was to be as ordinary as possible. That meant shutting out complicated explanations and refusing to be as rigorous and logical as Harry knew he could be, having seen him play chess. If he made a mistake, he also refused to admit it.

Hermione understood and even, she said, admired it in a way. It drove Harry insane. He popped to his feet. "I was just curious," he muttered, and retreated into his own bedroom.

Hermione was waiting for him when he came out.

"The answer to your question," she said, "is that Neville would have risen to the occasion. You know that a lot of what you did was up to Dumbledore making choices and manipulating people. He would have done the same thing to help Neville succeed."

Harry nodded. He had to wonder, in his dream, where Dumbledore was and how his unconscious mind would account for that.

Then he told himself again that it was only a _dream_, and thus didn't have to make sense.

"Good night, Hermione," he said, kissing her on the cheek as he went by.

"Good night, Harry," she said, and smiled at him. "We have a big case tomorrow, remember. Sleep well."

And doubtless Harry would have, if he hadn't found himself back on the platform in front of the cage, with Discipula and Neville and the silver-bearded wizard waiting, the moment he closed his eyes.

* * *

"The Good Stranger Exception holds," Discipula said, speaking to the crowd as if they had to accept her judgment. Maybe they had. Harry didn't know anything about the way things worked here, politically. "Mr. Evans shall defend the Malfoys."

A storm of shouting and objections broke out, but Discipula serenely ignored them. Somehow—Harry was never sure how—she got them herded off the platform, Harry and Malfoys and all, and into a side room. Harry still wasn't sure what building they were in, either, but at least it had a door that they could shut between them and all the noise.

He put his back to the door, wishing he didn't feel that he was trying to hold it shut, and then studied his new clients.

They were still chained. They still had the marks of pain in their faces. Lucius Malfoy had a healed scar near the eye, and Narcissa Malfoy looked as if she had anemia. Draco was crushed down to the point that Harry didn't know if he could lift his eyes.

"I'll do my best to help you," he said. "But I need to know more about the general situation."

For long moments, there was a single, freezing silence. Harry wondered if they were capable of seeing him as a friend when they'd been surrounded by enemies for so long.

Then Narcissa asked, "Are you Muggleborn?"

Harry had to nod. After all, that was an essential part of this conspiracy that he'd claimed existed between him and all these mysterious other Evans family members.

As one, the Malfoy parents turned their backs on him. Draco hesitated, then shuffled around to join them, dragging his chains.

And no matter how much Harry tried to talk to them, no matter what he said, they wouldn't say a single word.


	3. Cracks In a Wall

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Three—Cracks In a Wall_

"Will _one _of you say something to me?"

It was intolerable. They had been sitting in this bare room for an hour, or what felt like an hour to Harry. He didn't know how much time had passed in the real world. He only knew that it _felt _like long enough in the dream that he definitely should have woken up already. He rubbed his hand over his scar and wondered why he was having this dream and why it wasn't normal. This was better than the visions that he had suffered when Voldemort was still alive, but it was much more boring.

"Why should we?"

Oh, it was Malfoy that had talked to him—Draco, Harry reckoned he would have to start thinking of him as, when there were two other people with the last name of Malfoy in the room. He had turned around, although the stiffness of his parents' shoulders said they wished he hadn't, and was staring at Harry. He looked away at once, focusing on the ceiling with an air of superiority.

"Oh, come off it!" Harry snapped, irritated even though he had never seen this particular version of Malfoy before. _Maybe he's even worse than the Malfoy I know, because it only took him an hour to get on my nerves instead of seven years. _"You know that you've got no chance unless I offer you one. They're all set against you out there, and no one wants to defend you. I will, although God knows you don't deserve it," he added, thinking of what Hermione would say if people refused to listen to her just because she was Muggleborn.

Malfoy—Draco—hesitated, glancing at his parents as if he wanted them to help. But they stood there with their backs stubbornly turned to the room, so at last he shook his head and walked over to sit at the table across from Harry. Harry studied him, trying to see some source of his stubbornness in his face.

The face was thin, and lined. Draco might be accustomed to the best treatment, Harry thought, but he hadn't seen much of it lately. He hunched his shoulders as though he anticipated a beating. He walked without thought in the heavy chains, too, shuffling, but not as though he was unused to them. Harry thought this was harder on him than his parents, who acted as if they could go without food and with beatings for a long time and only ask their captors, in scornful silence, for more.

"It's a matter of principle," Malfoy said. He folded his hands on the table in front of him and regarded Harry steadily. "You—you can't understand, not if you're really from outside the wizarding world. They defeated the Dark Lord. They can't defeat us."

"You'll _die_, if you don't do something," Harry said. Then he paused. "Or was that exaggeration?"

Malfoy shook his head. "No. We'll be executed." His mouth twisted. "It's the death sentence, for helping the Dark Lord."

"What happened to Snape?" Harry had to ask, wondering if Discipula would have sacrificed even him, the one heroic Death Eater, to the crowd. Or the politics, or whatever the motive was for treating Death Eater prisoners as poorly as possible and not giving them a barrister.

Draco leaned forwards and stared at him from so close that their noses almost brushed. Harry didn't back down because that would be giving in. He focused his eyes on Draco and glared instead. Draco settled back and uttered a faint, cracked laugh.

"Make up your mind," he said. "You've lived far enough out of the world that you don't know anything, or you've lived close enough that you've picked up some things from the papers. Either you don't know who Professor Snape is, or you know what happened to him. But it can't be a mixture of the two."

_Fuck, _Harry thought, and massaged his forehead. He could wish the scar was burning again. That would have been simple compared to this problem.

Then he relaxed. _Dream, remember? I got myself into this situation, but it can't hurt me. I don't know why I'm having these dreams. I seriously doubt they can follow me into the real world and damage my life there, though._

"Assume that I know some things and not others," Harry said quietly. "Remember, Malfoy, I'm your _only _chance. Either you trust me or you don't, either you want to work with me despite your prejudices or you don't, but you don't get to reject me because I know too much for your comfort."

Once again, Draco shot a miserable glance at his parents. Once again, they stood there like immovable statues. Harry scowled at them. He could understand their prejudice against Muggleborns, maybe, but not the stupid way they refused to fight for themselves.

"They don't," Draco said, and made it a finished sentence by closing his eyes. Harry took pity on him; he looked so incredibly tired.

"I'll tell you something that I haven't told anyone else," Harry said. "I know exactly what the war cost you, in another world. That's where I'm from." As Draco stared at him with wide, incredulous eyes, at least startled out of his own tiredness, he pushed his hair back and showed Draco the lightning bolt scar. "Doesn't this look like the one Longbottom has? That's because it was, in my world. His destiny was mine. Or mine was his, I don't know which. I killed Voldemort there, but some things went differently. You were tried with a competent defender, and you were acquitted. I think I can make the same thing happen this time."

He believed it, too. He hadn't read the records of the Malfoy trial, but he could get access to them. And he could use the same arguments. Who cared if he wasn't up to the same standard of legal training, yet, as long as he could fake it?

Draco nodded and licked his lips. "I don't believe you, exactly," he said, "but that's a curse scar. I'll see what I can do to convince my parents."

Harry smiled at him. Draco looked startled. That made Harry's heart ache, to see how long he must have gone without a smile, for a simple gesture like that to startle him.

* * *

That morning, Harry stood under the shower with his head plastered against the wall, and let the pleasant warm water stroke the back of his neck.

"This is impossible," he told the air, in case it wanted to listen to him. "How in the world am I supposed to keep up with two different versions of Malfoy? How am I supposed to handle going to sleep and having this stupid dream, and feeling sorry for Malfoy, and then waking up and remembering that it's all just a dream?"

"Harry!" Hermione yelled through the wall. "That trial starts at eight. We're not going to be late!"

Harry groaned. He knew that most people would have thought Hermione meant they _were _going to be late, but he knew Hermione. She would break the rules on Apparition, the wards, his arm, and quite possibly the laws of nature to ensure that they got to the courtroom on time.

He shook his head gloomily and stopped the water. He would have liked to say that he had some idea of how to handle this, but he didn't. The universe in his dreams involved him in the kinds of philosophical difficulties that he'd always known he'd have trouble handling. During the war with Voldemort, things had been simple. Voldemort was evil, and had to be stopped. Maybe the people serving him weren't evil, but at least you had one person you could oppose without any qualms.

Since he had started studying law, Harry had learned better. There were guilty people who had good reasons for what they'd done, and innocent people who were innocent in a shifty way. And you might have to defend someone you knew was guilty as hell, because everyone still deserved a passionate defense.

But this wasn't that kind of philosophical difficulty, either. Harry could defend the Malfoys in his dreams with a quiet heart. But not a quiet mind. Did the Malfoys in his dream _exist? _What about everyone else? Should he care about finding out what had happened to Snape, and Neville, and the rest of them, without him around? It was only a bloody dream.

Except it wasn't, because it had felt and seemed far too real, and Harry could remember all of it, and he had had it more than once. He wondered if that universe was reaching out to him because he didn't exist there, or because he could solve the problems of the people there.

_Great, _he thought sourly as he flicked his hand through his wet hair; combs were as useless for him as they'd always been. _So now it's not just prophecies and insane Dark Lords that choose me, it's whole _worlds. _And I have to be a Savior twice over._

Then he paused, remembering something Hermione had said the other day that he hadn't thought about in detail, because he'd been occupied with one of her denser books at the time.

"_I think you chose to become a lawyer for the same reason you chose to become an Auror, Harry. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if you weren't a hero, and this is an easy way for you to handle that."_

Harry scowled at himself in the mirror. He wondered what in the world—worlds—had possessed him to choose a best friend who was that bloody insightful.

"_Harry!_"

Oh, and one who was that bloody impatient.

* * *

"What are you doing reading that, Potter?"

Harry started and dropped the thick book on his foot. That caused him to hiss and clutch at his wounded toes, which made him tip out of the chair he'd been occupying in the corridor outside the courtroom. And _that _made him flush to his hairline as he stood up and faced Malfoy.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. He didn't need to say anything, and he knew it.

"Shut up," Harry hissed anyway, bending and picking up the book. He tried to keep the title from Malfoy, but Malfoy caught the motion of his hand and waved his wand lazily. Of course the book leaped out of Harry's arms and flew to him, and of course it flipped open to the page Harry had been trying to hold down with a finger, so that Malfoy could see exactly what he had been reading.

"Traitor," Harry told the book.

"My trial records?" Malfoy asked in a perfectly polite tone that didn't need any further commentary than his raised eyebrow had. He flipped the book shut again and tossed it back to Harry. Harry caught it and tried not to shift from foot to foot. He had every right to look at the trial records, he told himself defiantly. They were a matter for the public now. Hermione, as well as other people, had insisted that the Ministry publicize all its decisions made immediately after the war, in the name of accountability. They weren't going to stand for another Fudge.

"Yes," Harry said shortly. "I'm studying them for the cases that I might defend in the future." No need for Malfoy to know the real reason. It wasn't as though he would believe it, anyway.

"Of course you were," Malfoy said. His voice was a drawl, but Harry knew him well enough by now to glance sharply at him. His head was turned away, and his mouth drawn up into an inflexible bow.

"I was!" Harry said. It wasn't even a lie, at least if you accepted that the future could also mean "the next time I went to sleep."

"Oh, just _say _it, Potter," Malfoy snapped, spinning around again. He spat and sparked the way that Ron would when he was in pain, which Harry didn't understand. Since when did his opinion of Malfoy hurt Malfoy? It was his Quidditch skill that Malfoy wanted, not his philosophy. "You suspect me of doing something underhanded, and you're trying to find evidence so that you can try me again."

Harry stared at him, then snorted. "Yes, of course," he said. "This whole meeting you to play Quidditch, and agreeing to it against my will, was just a ploy to get close to you and spy on you. That's why I secretly cast the Imperius Curse on you so that you would get the idea to approach me."

Malfoy frowned at him. Harry frowned back. He didn't see why Malfoy should be the only one who got to use humor.

"All right," Malfoy said. "But you would have no reason to be interested in my trial records unless I was involved."

"I have bad news, Malfoy." Harry lowered his voice and leaned closer; Malfoy did the same thing, instinctively. That was one of the most useful tricks Hermione had taught him, Harry thought, whispering instead of shouting when he wanted someone's attention. "The universe doesn't revolve around you."

Malfoy sneered and stepped away from him. "So you're going to be on time for the practice match this afternoon at two?"

"Is _that _all you came for?" Harry asked. He had the upper hand, and he liked it. He wasn't going to let it go now. "Of course I will be. Unlike you, if you have to leave the Ministry, go home, and try on at least four sets of poncey new clothes between now and two, plus the Quidditch robes." Malfoy had insisted on wearing his professional Seeker's robes yesterday, too. Harry thought it was to remind Harry of the difference between them, and how far he had reached down beneath himself in accepting Harry's help.

Malfoy gave him a sudden, genuine smile, and then turned and strode down the corridor, exactly as if he had agreed to hand Harry his victory. Harry blinked at his back and looked behind him, in case someone had come out of the courtroom, someone who Malfoy wouldn't want to be seen arguing in front of. It was the only thing Harry could think of that would cause him to behave so differently. Hermione might have reached the part of her case that Harry could learn something from now; he'd come out to sit in the chair in the first place because she was going over material he already knew by heart.

But there was no one there. Harry scowled after Malfoy.

_He knows how to make you feel as if you lost even when you didn't._

* * *

"I was wondering if I should call you Harry."

Malfoy announced that when he zipped across the pitch to greet Harry that afternoon. Harry grunted back and swung onto his broom without answering. His head pounded with the implications of the trial records and the arguments that Hermione had made before he left. He wondered if he could arrange to imitate her expression of perfect contempt as she listened to the Wizengamot member who was prosecuting the case when he went back into the dream.

"Since we're such good friends."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I already said that I wasn't looking up that case to hurt you, Malfoy," he said. "No need to pretend more friendliness than you really feel. I won't haul you into court tomorrow."

"But what about the next day?" Malfoy hovered in front of him and gave him a madman's smile. Harry shook his head. Malfoy really was going overboard to make Harry think he was—

What? At the moment, the only thing Harry thought of Malfoy was that he was mental.

"Not the next day, either," he said with exaggerated patience. "Now, are we here to discuss our friendliness, or are we here to play Quidditch?"

For answer, Malfoy tossed up the Snitch. Harry laid his legs along the broom and followed after it. Malfoy sped up beside him and flew knee-to-knee with Harry, glancing at him with a smile and narrowed eyes.

It annoyed Harry. Malfoy had the better broom; he could fly faster if he wanted to. He was only keeping pace with Harry to show off. Harry gritted his teeth and flattened himself, then abruptly dipped down behind Malfoy, came up beneath him, and nearly shouldered him aside.

As he had known would happen, Malfoy responded to the pressure by lifting and then dropping down to the right. But he didn't scream or fix his eyes grimly on the Snitch or try to spill Harry off his broom in turn. Instead, he resumed his former position, once more neck-and-neck with Harry, although they were both flying at a lesser height this time.

Harry glared. Malfoy laughed silently at him and whispered—Harry could only make out the words by reading the shape of his lips—"God, it's good to have some competition again!"

Harry shook his head stubbornly. He knew that he wasn't as good as the professional Seekers that Malfoy refused to train with. He spun abruptly away towards the ground, letting the broom turn in complete circles, so that he was facing backwards or to the side as often as forwards. It was an insanely risky maneuver, but it did ensure that no one could come up right beside you and crowd you, which was the only advantage Harry wanted right now.

Malfoy cried out, but Harry didn't hear what he said. He did glance up quickly, in case Malfoy had fallen, but there he was still mounted, racing down at an angle to join Harry.

_Infuriating. _Harry turned his head, located a fugitive gleam of gold that might have been the Snitch, and shot away, dipping and lifting, riding the air like he would ride a wave at sea, so that Malfoy couldn't tell where he was going to be from one moment to the next. That ought to convince him Harry was showing off, and make him show off in turn—by keeping away.

But no, there he was again, flying side-by-side with Harry and exactly imitating his up-and-down movements, his hair whipping behind him and his face alight with excitement.

In a distant part of his mind, Harry realized that it took more skill to keep up with him when his movements were wild and choppy. But he was annoyed. This wasn't about getting the Snitch anymore. It had become, somehow, about proving that he wasn't who Malfoy thought he was.

He turned sideways and flew that way, his head paralleled to the ground, his hands stiff with the grip that he had to keep and hold. He didn't look at Malfoy. He just looked straight ahead, and concentrated on the flashing shapes of pitch and trees, as well as he could see them when he was at this angle, and then drove back up into the sky again, not flying in any discernible pattern because _he _didn't know where he was going from one moment to the next.

The air trembled beside him, and there was Malfoy. He gave Harry one exhilarated grin and then concentrated on his flight.

_Unfair!_ Harry wanted to shout, but this wasn't Hogwarts and there was no one to control the situation for him. He would just have to do something to prove that he was better and that he could catch the Snitch and that he didn't _like _Malfoy. All three were the same thing, he thought, or at least it seemed like that to him.

He rose like a swan from water, and Malfoy followed. He circled the way that a skylark would at the top of its flight, and Malfoy was there, turning circles around him in turn. He leveled out in a straight glide that became a dive, like an eagle seeing prey, and Malfoy was a shade slower than he was, but he pulled up at the same time, and so saved himself from colliding with the earth.

Harry turned his head once and gave Malfoy what he would only take as a smile if he was much stupider than Harry thought he was. Malfoy laughed back, mouth open and teeth gleaming, eyes brilliant with enjoyment.

_He's the professional Quidditch player, _Harry reminded himself again as he came out of a loop and turned right-side up. _It's reasonable that he would be better at this than you are. Or at least as good. And you're not being his friend if you give him competition. You're just doing what he asked you to do, which is make him a better Seeker._

Harry stopped abruptly and lifted a hand. The Snitch slammed home into his palm. Malfoy flew up beside him a moment later and shook his head.

"How did you know that it was right there?" he demanded. "That's the kind of skill I want to learn from you, but I don't know if you can teach me."

Harry smiled. Here was another road to his goal, the one that included pushing Malfoy away from him so that he would stop being—being right _there_ all the time. "I don't know. That's not the kind of thing I can teach, you're right. I could have put my hand up and grasped empty air. I thought I would."

"Instinct," Malfoy said, not looking as discouraged by this as Harry had hoped he would be. "And intuition. Yes. A large part of your victories depend on instinct and intuition, don't they?" He had a narrow grin on his face now.

"Yes," Harry said. "They do." He tried to appear and sound as dignified as he possibly could. He could _do _this, he reminded himself. He didn't have to feel so on the defensive. Malfoy had asked for training, that was all. He hadn't paid for it. Harry didn't have to stick around if he really didn't want to. "So it's kind of useless, don't you think? All I've done is lead you a chase all over the pitch. I didn't show you defensive techniques or anything like that."

Malfoy pushed his fringe out of his eyes and gave Harry a sharp stare. "What are you talking about? That's the best exercise I've had in—it feels like centuries, but of course it isn't _that _long since I started with the Eagles." He hovered closer to Harry, and Harry kept an eye on his wand hand. "If nothing else, you're showing me how I can fly faster than my enemies and they'll labor to keep up with me."

Harry frowned. He hadn't wanted to show Malfoy that.

"What's the matter?" Malfoy's voice was softer, darker, and he had pulled away, hovering on his broom as though he expected an attack from below. "You look, sometimes, as though you wish you weren't here."

"Everything else in my life makes sense," Harry said. _Except the dreams. _But Malfoy—this Malfoy—didn't need to know about those. "My friendships with Ron and Hermione. My study of law. The cases I attend. But you—this doesn't. I can't tell if you really want to be friends, or what."

"Does that matter?" Malfoy whispered. "Surely what should matter is the way that you feel on the pitch, rather than what I feel. If you really don't care about the way I feel, that is."

Harry looked at him warily. Malfoy was stroking his chin with one hand and smiling. His eyes gave him away, though. They were too intense for the casual question he had asked.

After a few seconds of staring, though, Harry had to give up. There were just too many factors going on that could be behind Malfoy's question, too many things that he could have meant. And so far, he hadn't threatened Harry. Not as such. He had just made him feel strange and given him a puzzle piece that didn't fit in with the rest of his life. Harry wanted to accuse him of causing the dreams, since they had started after he had agreed to practice with Malfoy, but he couldn't.

_Not yet._

"I felt good," Harry said. "It's been a long time since I've flown like that."

Malfoy nodded, reached out, and rapped hard on the knuckles of Harry's hand that held the Snitch. Harry yelped and let it go. Malfoy laughed. "First one to the Snitch earns a drink from the other!" he shouted, and took off.

Harry followed, relieved. Malfoy was acting like Malfoy again, instead of a stranger.

_Instead of like the Malfoy in the dream. I don't think I could put up with more than one of him._


	4. An Alternate History

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Four—An Alternate History_

This time, when he opened his eyes in the room where the Malfoy parents still stood with their backs to him and Draco sat at the table in front of him staring into his face, Harry's curiosity overcame him. He _had _to know what happened when he woke up. The dream always seemed to resume in the same place it had left off, no matter how long he spent awake or how long it had lasted when he was asleep the time before. Did he faint? Disappear? Did the dream simply stop for everyone, including him, and then resume with no break for the people he was dreaming of?

"Nothing happened just then, did it?" he asked Malfoy—Draco.

Draco frowned and looked as if he was reconsidering, or at least regretting, the decision to turn around and talk to Harry. "No. Why?"

"I half-wondered if someone would try to pull me back to my own world for admitting the truth to you," Harry said. "But I didn't look as if I were fading or having to fight off any sort of hostile spell, did it?"

"I would say that you would know that better than we would." Draco was drawing his arms back towards himself, presenting a cool façade that he obviously intended to remain unbroken now that Harry had disappointed him.

"I felt nothing, either," Harry said. "But then, I don't know how I ended up here in the first place. I don't know what it would feel like if someone sent me here, regretted it, and then yanked me away again."

Draco only eyed him skeptically and didn't reply.

Harry was beginning to relax, though. It seemed the dream functioned like—well, a dream, when he wasn't around, other than resuming in the exact same place when he closed his eyes and having a largely linear time-frame. He wouldn't have to explain what was going on every time he woke up, and he probably didn't have to fear intrusions from his own world. He had wondered if Hermione or someone else who recognized him might appear and question him as to what he was doing, trying to defend the Malfoys without having completed his legal training.

"I can defend you," he told Malfoy. "I was looking at the trial records in the world I'm from. The defender who stood up for you there told the court that you hadn't done anything worse than the majority of Death Eaters, and in fact, you'd participated less in the war than most, since your father lost his wand, your mother wasn't a full Death Eater, and you were just a kid." He watched several expressions move across Malfoy's face, and remembered how it would have felt to be called "just a kid" immediately after the war. He tried to soften his voice and look more sympathetic as he added, "That's happened here, too, hasn't it?"

"Yes," Malfoy said, and his voice was deep with shock. "I—I don't know how you know that, but it happened. My father gave his wand to the Dark Lord, who lost it in an attempt to duel Longbottom. My mother never wanted the full Mark, and received it only under duress. And I was—I was the Dark Lord's torturer, but I didn't fight. Mostly, he used me to torture Death Eaters who messed up." He shuddered, his fine, sensitive face suddenly tight-strung.

Harry nodded. "And how did Longbottom beat Voldemort?" It seemed strange to call Neville by his last instead of his first name, but then, Harry would have to keep reminding himself that the people in the dream were not the people he knew until it stuck.

Both the elder Malfoys jerked as if he had struck them. Draco's mouth dropped open, and he didn't bother to hide it, which made Harry like him better. He couldn't imagine the Draco he knew in his waking life doing something like that. He would try to pretend that he had known Harry was going to say that all along—and, in his case, that would only be accurate.

"You said his name," Draco whispered.

Harry reached across the table and squeezed Draco's hand. He was reminding Harry of a duckling at the moment, a small and helpless creature who needed the protection of an older and stronger one. "Yes," Harry said. "I told you. I defeated him. That doesn't mean I was never afraid of him, but it does mean that I fought him and I didn't hide from him."

"I didn't hide from him, either," Draco said. "But in the end, it didn't matter." He cost his eyes down and sighed.

"What happened?" Harry prompted again, more gently this time.

Draco sucked the back of his teeth before he answered. _Does the waking Draco do that, or not? _Harry wondered. _How different are they? _"Longbottom apparently used the Sword of Gryffindor in some unexpected way. It was enchanted in a ritual to kill powerful Slytherins, I reckon. Or that was what people said. The official secret of the fight is still a secret. They said that it wouldn't be safe for Longbottom otherwise. But there's no doubt that the Dark Lord's gone," he added, looking to the side. Harry thought his eyes were aimed at his father's arm. "And other people saw him die."

Harry grunted. Well, that was less useful than he had thought it might be, but that wasn't Draco's fault. "And what happened to you? Did you attend school this last year? What happened to the other Slytherins?"

Draco shook his head. "I was home at Malfoy Manor for the last two years. That was where the Dark Lord made his headquarters." He shut his eyes, looking ill.

Harry squeezed his hand again. Malfoy in his world had suffered too, he knew, but at least he had spent most of his time away from Voldemort. He couldn't imagine what two years of constant contact would do. Perhaps he should be grateful that Draco was sane enough to speak with him at all.

"You're so nice," Draco whispered, and his fingers closed around Harry's hand hard enough to make his arm spasm.

Narcissa Malfoy cleared her throat. Harry had no idea what it meant, but it made Draco flinch and sit up straight. He didn't let go of Harry's hand, though, perhaps figuring out that his parents couldn't see him holding on anyway.

"I'll do what I can," Harry said. "Now, can you tell me what happened to Snape and Dumbledore? Where I'm from, they played an important part in the war."

"Dumbledore is dead," Draco said, and closed his eyes as though he was seeing Dumbledore fall from the Tower, though from the sound of it, he hadn't been involved in this particular death. Harry felt a surge of inexpressible relief. "There's nothing there to be done. He would have spoken up for us, maybe, if he lived. But then, everything would have been different if he lived. Everyone said that _he _would have fought the Dark Lord."

Harry nodded, more as encouragement than because he agreed. He could see the Dumbledore in this world being at least as smart as the Dumbledore from the other one, and leaving clues so that Neville could kill Voldemort instead.

"But Professor Snape—" Draco paused, and his tongue teased his teeth again. Harry stared in fascination, and then told himself that he was paying far too much attention to Malfoy's tongue and looked away. "No one is quite sure what happened to him."

Harry blinked. "What do you mean?" he asked, when he could think of something to say. "I mean, I'd think that Snape is the kind of person you would either hear something from or nothing from. I can understand him disappearing. Is that what happened?"

Draco shook his head. "He was in critical condition towards the end of the war. I know that. He killed Dumbledore in a duel, and he was high in the Dark Lord's favor for a while. But then—something happened. They had a row, maybe, or the Dark Lord thought he was spying. He cast a curse. Professor Snape disappeared. They found him towards the end of the war. Now no one knows if he's dead and the Ministry's covering it up, or if he's at St. Mungo's, or if he recovered and managed to flee before they could catch up with him. Or if he's in custody, like us," he added, staring down at the chains around his wrists with an inexpressible bitterness.

Harry made a careful mental note to find out anything about Snape he could. Maybe the Malfoys' trial wasn't the only wrong he'd been called to this world to fix. "Well, that doesn't help much," he mused.

Draco jerked away from him, freeing his hand so that he could cross his arms proudly and making his chains sing like bells. "I've given you all I can."

"Oh, sorry," Harry said, shaking his head. Sympathy or not, he thought, it was still easy for them to irritate each other. "What I meant was that Professor Snape might have been a help to us, if he was free. Without him, though, or at least his body, we can't count on help from that quarter."

"I thought you said that _you_ could help us," Draco said, pulling further away yet. "Just you, by yourself."

"I can help with the defense," Harry said patiently. "That doesn't mean that it wouldn't help to have witnesses who could testify that you're not the convinced Death Eaters that they think you are. People who would say that you have a good character, people who knew you and could point out that you did _other _things besides fight for Voldemort or act as torturers…" He looked distractedly around the room. Of course Discipula would have shut them in here without a quill or a piece of parchment, he thought in irritation, and he couldn't exactly bring those things with him into the dream. Well, for now, he would just have to remember the list. Maybe he could write it down when he woke and then look at it closely right before he went to bed. "McGonagall, for one."

Draco stared at him with his mouth open once more. Harry raised his eyebrows. He wondered if the few months that he thought this dream's timeline ran behind the real world's were enough to make that much of a difference in Draco's age. If anything, he'd think Draco's extra exposure to Voldemort would have aged him more.

"Harry," he said, and Harry felt a sense of inexplicable satisfaction at the way he said Harry's name. "She was my _teacher._"

Harry nodded patiently. "And was she ever unfair? I know that in my world, she wanted Gryffindor to win at Quidditch and wanted us to succeed better than any other House in the school, but I can't remember a time when she gave us fewer detentions than other people, or gave us points for something that we hadn't earned, or overlooked our faults if we had them. She also gave praise even to Slytherins. She might be able to tell Discipula something good about your character."

"I…suppose so." Draco looked dazed now. "But that wouldn't help my parents." He looked over his shoulder instinctively.

Harry looked with him, and felt his eyes narrow. He'd had about enough of the Malfoy Deaf and Dumb Society. He rose to his feet. "Sir," he said. "Ma'am. You might as well turn around and stop pretending that I don't exist."

They remained there, motionless. Harry nodded and felt around in his pockets. If he was wearing robes, it was more than likely that he would have a stray bit of lint or thread somewhere.

He found a few loose threads and snipped them short with his wand. Draco watched him in silent bafflement as he wound them together. Harry winked at him, faced the elder Malfoys, and threw his improvised ball at the back of Lucius's head.

It didn't hit hard, but the fact that it hit at all was enough to make the man's shoulders stiffen. He still didn't turn around, though. Harry Summoned the ball back and threw it at Narcissa's head this time. She also stiffened, and Harry saw a fine tremor riding the edges of her shoulders. He thought she would crack sooner than Lucius would, whether because she had been under a greater amount of stress or had more dignity he didn't know. He aimed the ball at her again.

"Enough, Mr. Evans."

That was Lucius. He had turned around and was staring at Harry with an expression of hatred that would have chilled Harry if he had intended to allow anything to chill him. It wasn't personal hatred, of the kind that Malfoy had shown him when Harry freed Dobby. And he had never existed in this world for the Death Eaters to point their wands and their loathing at. That was Neville.

_How?_

But Harry shook away the useless thoughts. As Malfoy—Draco—had told him, there was no possibility that he could know that right now. He had to answer Lucius's hatred, which was for his blood, and his apparent intention to negotiate.

Harry inclined his head and raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Malfoy. Are you going to let me defend you or not?"

"It would not be my first choice," Lucius said, every word as heavy as the shutting of a door in a tomb. "To let a Mudblood defend me, knowing that my life rests in inexperienced hands."

Harry snorted. He wouldn't let that one pass unchallenged, though realistically, it was probably better to do so. "Oh, of course. Since it's been in such competent hands so far that you ended up a few hours away from death."

Someone drew in their breath from the side. Harry glanced over and saw that Narcissa Malfoy was facing him as well now, her eyes wide and her hand over her mouth. When she saw him looking, she promptly tried to pretend that she had never covered her mouth and never gasped. But Harry had seen her, and it reassured him that these people were human and not ice statues after all.

"I'm your barrister, whether you want me to be or not," Harry said. "And at the moment, I would rather not be." He looked off to the side, trying to think of people who might vouch as character witnesses for the older Malfoys in the way that McGonagall could vouch for Draco. It really was too bad that both Dumbledore and Snape were unavailable—although, come to think of it, he had no idea if Snape would have gone to the barriers for the Malfoys even if he _was _around. He might favor Draco without liking his parents.

Well. An incomplete plan was still better than the lack of options they'd been left with before he showed up. He turned around.

"I'll seek out and speak with McGonagall," he said. "You think of people who might speak up for you."

Lucius sneered at him. "Think rather of the people who would not," he said, in gloomy satisfaction. "That would give you an embarrassment of riches."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Is your _embarrassment _at being defended by me really so great that you would rather go to your death?"

"You do not understand," Narcissa said. Her voice was soft and harsh, the way Harry had heard it when she was stooping over him in the Forbidden Forest and preparing to lie to Voldemort. "We have standards to preserve. We are nearly the only ones left who _can _preserve them. Everyone else is dead, in prison, or compromised because they have given up their principles to fit in with the enemy. If you defend us, who will be left to think of blood purity as it should be thought of?"

Harry blinked. Then he stared. Then he turned to Draco. "Were you or were you not going to die?" he asked.

Draco blinked back, as though he was unused to being spoken to like an adult. With these parents, Harry could see why. Either he had never realized how overwhelming Lucius and Narcissa were in his own world, or they had sheltered and dominated Draco more here.

But Draco drew himself up just before Harry would have felt compelled to intervene and said, "Yes, I think we were going to die."

Harry turned back to Narcissa. "Then you would have joined all the rest who were dead. Isn't it better to be defended by a Muggleborn than let your precious standards perish?"

Narcissa shook her head. "Any life we buy, we must lead in being pure."

Lucius nodded beside her. Harry looked from face to face, and saw no relaxing or cracking in their masks yet. They probably would do this, he thought, let things continue until they got to the point where they would die, because they really and honestly believed in what they promoted.

Without madness, the way Voldemort had had, but it was fanaticism anyway.

Harry took a deep breath and then turned his back on them. Hermione had taught him this method of dealing with clients' family members who didn't really want a defense for whatever reason. He would leave them out of it—even though they were clients in this case—and work with the one who wanted to live.

He sat down across from Draco and said, "I'm going to McGonagall. She'll speak up for you, I'm fairly certain. Your job is to think of anyone else who could belong on the same list and communicate the name to me. All right?"

Draco gaped at him for the third time. His mother took a step forwards and reached out one hand as though she could command him to turn around with that simple gesture. "Draco, you must not," she said earnestly. "You know that you must not, if you listen to your instincts rather than your wits."

"Such a charming set of standards, when you tell your son to ignore his intelligence," Harry said, without looking away from Draco. "Will you do it, Draco?"

Maybe it was the first name, maybe not, but Draco slowly nodded. Harry smiled and rose to hold his hand out.

He only thought of the significance of the gesture when Draco's fingers closed around his, but that was all right. The only other people who could have appreciated it weren't in this world, anyway.

* * *

"I have got to stop dreaming like this," Harry told the wall of his bedroom.

The wall of his bedroom went on looking like the white plaster and brown wood it always did. Harry sat up and lowered his head into his hands, taking some deep breaths, until he had to accept that the memories of the dream wouldn't fade.

_This is weird. It's still dreams, and I'm still not waking up with mysterious wounds or hungrier than I was, as if I'd spent time awake. I'm not tired. It seems as though my body sleeps in the bed while my mind goes wandering._

Then Harry rolled his eyes. He had Malfoys on the brain, since he had immediately envisioned the answer that the Malfoy in this world would give to that statement. _You have a mind that can go wandering?_

"I deserve to have a life of my own," Harry told the bedroom wall, which kept its own counsel. "I'll have to find out why I'm having these dreams and then stop them. Maybe Malfoy decided to make me have them? They started appearing after I agreed to practice with him. But I can't imagine why he would want me to have them. I mean, he doesn't want to appear pathetic, and they're another distraction that might keep me from practicing with him."

The wall didn't answer. Harry frowned as he thought. Yes, it might sound stupid, but he really did believe that Malfoy wasn't the one sending the dreams. He had no motivation for it, and as little as Harry thought he understood former Death Eaters, he still believed he had a better handle on the Malfoys in this world than he did the ones in the dream, bizarre behavior and all.

"So what does the caster want, then?" he asked aloud. "If this isn't meant to hurt me, or at least isn't hurting me right now, do they want me to think about this dream world? Spend my time focused on going to sleep instead of the world around me? Is there something that I'm meant to miss because the dreams absorb my attention?"

And again, it seemed like a stupid, roundabout way to achieve anything that really mattered. After all, why not just injure Ron or Hermione? That would achieve the same thing at much less expense of magic, and it would be something that Harry couldn't keep separate from the rest of his life, or hidden, the way he could the dreams. As long as he didn't wander into thinking about Draco in court, then those dreams would have virtually no mental effect on him.

Hermione had taught him to reason logically, or at least she had tried before giving up in disgust. Harry closed his eyes and thought. What solution was left, if he had got rid of the idea of someone trying to influence him with the dreams or distract him?

Well, it could be the result of a mistaken spell that had been meant to do something else. In fact, the more Harry thought about that theory, the more he liked it. Yes, he could see someone who hadn't meant to send him the dreams but to curse him. Perhaps he had been meant to sleep forever, or become obsessed with Malfoy, or get a crushing inferiority complex from the fact that he wasn't the Savior anymore. Hermione kept telling him that she thought he had started studying law to stay a hero. What better way to punish him, someone else might think, than to make him dwell on the fact that he wasn't a hero anymore until he couldn't think of anything else?

Instead, though, this unknown, incompetent wizard had just assured that Harry had another chance to play the hero. He _did _like being needed, and he could admit readily that he had chosen to study law because he wanted to serve people who needed help; he just didn't think that was the proof of obsession with heroism that Hermione thought it was. But this way, he got to be one in his sleep.

"Harry Potter against the forces of the universe," he said aloud, and chuckled.

"Harry?"

He blinked and turned. That was Ron, and he stood in the doorway with his hand on the door as if he didn't know whether he should come further into the room. Harry reckoned he must have presented an unnerving sight, sitting half-naked on the bed and talking and laughing to himself, moments after he'd been frowning fiercely at the wall.

"It's all right, Ron," Harry said reassuringly, and he really did think it was. The dreams weren't hurting him. He could set them aside and go on with his life, although he would do some more research into the Malfoy trial records.

_And why not ask Malfoy about his parents' connections the next time you play against him? That might give you some ideas for ways to help the Malfoys in the dream, assuming the people exist in that universe._

Then Harry shook his head. It wasn't a universe, not if it was the result of a miscast spell. It was just magic acting on his mind. He didn't owe these people anything. They weren't real, and he would be as justified dressing them up in pink robes as laboring to help them.

But if it didn't matter, he thought a moment later, and what he did didn't matter, then he might as well choose to help them as to do anything else.

"If you say so," Ron said dubiously. "Anyway, breakfast is ready." He vanished, and Harry reached for his clothes. He would go away and have an ordinary day of studying and watching Hermione, and in the afternoon would come the brief bizarre interlude when he played Quidditch and tried to figure out what Malfoy wanted. It was the only useless part of his day; Harry didn't believe he could actually teach Malfoy anything about how to be a Seeker, which meant he wasn't helping anyone, but on the other hand, he couldn't figure out Malfoy yet.

Then Harry brightened. _Not so useless, if I can ask him about his parents and their friends this time._

For some reason, Hermione and Ron both wanted to know why he was humming under his breath with happiness during breakfast. Harry didn't see why he shouldn't hum if he wanted to.


	5. Resentment and Hostility

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Five—Resentment and Hostility_

"There's no reason for you to want to know about my parents' friends."

Harry blinked at Malfoy's back. He had assumed, without thinking about it, that of course Malfoy wouldn't have a problem in answering his questions. Didn't he love to talk about himself? And this was a question about the worth and pride and connections his family had, if not Malfoy himself. So he ought to have no problem. He would never know that it was for the sake of an alternate Draco, either, but Harry liked to think it would only make him more eager to help if he knew.

_Liked _to think. Harry was having to admit to himself frequently that he didn't understand the Malfoy who actually existed, no matter how he understood the broken Draco in the dreams.

And this was only another example of it, given Malfoy's stiff shoulders and the resentment in his voice as he spun his broom away from Harry. Harry sighed, rolled his eyes, and decided that he might as well rephrase the question. "Yes, there is. I'm trying to understand you. I told you that I don't think you fit well into the rest of my life. If I knew a little more about you, then you might."

Malfoy actually paused and sat motionless on his broom, staring at the far side of the Quidditch pitch. Harry decided that he should give him a few minutes and then head over and wave a hand in his face, just to make sure that he hadn't killed him with shock.

"Ask me questions about me." Malfoy's voice was quiet and dry.

"What?" Harry asked. He knew he had heard correctly, but he couldn't imagine any way in which Malfoy's words were an adequate response to his question.

"If you want to know about me," Malfoy said, swinging around and eyeing Harry with unexpected intensity, "then ask me questions about my personal life. Ask about how well I play Quidditch. Ask about what I felt during the war, who my friends are, whether I resented it that you returned my wand to me as if you were dropping off an unwanted Kneazle kitten. But leave my parents out of it."

Harry _did _understand, then, a flash of insight that connected Malfoy's emotions now with Malfoy's reaction when he'd found Harry reading the trial records the other day. He made a rude noise in sheer relief. "Come off it, Malfoy. I'm not trying to get your parents in trouble again."

Malfoy blinked, and his face relaxed. Harry had to admit that he looked more attractive when it was that way, rather than drawn tight and ferret-like with suspicion. "Then why the questions? Why the trial records? I can hardly imagine that they make stimulating reading, even for the Great Harry Potter." He paused and cocked his head, a malicious smirk touching the edges of his lips. "Unless you simply like to see your name in print. Keep your own collection of _Daily Prophet _clippings, do you?"

Harry groaned, both because Malfoy still thought Harry liked the attention and because he didn't know how to create an explanation for why he wanted the trial records or news about the Malfoys' contacts without telling the truth. "It's not that, Malfoy. I would be perfectly happy if everyone left me alone tomorrow."

"_Right_," Malfoy said, the word like a blow, and he began to ride his broom in a lazy circle around Harry. Harry kept turning to face him, wondering when this had become an interrogation with him as the suspect instead of Malfoy. "That's why you've chosen to become a barrister, dealing with trials that the press will surely cover."

Harry paused, startled. He had only thought about his vocation in terms of need and heroism, before, and that only when Hermione pressed him to think about it. Otherwise, it was something that fascinated him and that he wanted to do—both traits that were rare in his activities since the war—and he didn't see why he needed to question or justify himself about it.

Put like that, it was possible. "Well, fuck," he muttered. "Maybe you have a point."

Malfoy stopped flying and stared at him. Harry quickly pressed the advantage. "My undiagnosed attention-seeking tendencies aside," he said, "I do want to understand you, and understanding your family seems to be part of that. Since you never hesitate to remind me that you are _part _of a family, and not a poor little orphan trying to stand on his own."

Malfoy shook his head slowly, but Harry didn't think he was denying the accusation. "I never thought you would say I was right," he muttered.

Harry sighed impatiently. "I have changed, Malfoy. I acknowledge that you can change, too. I just think that wanting _me _to train with you, considering our history and the wealth of other potential partners, is bloody weird, that's all."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "What wealth? I've told you about how they distrust me. And they have good reason, considering I don't trust them."

"There are retired trainers you could pay," Harry said. "Why would you want me instead of them? Our relationship is too unsettled by things like simple requests for knowledge to bring you much benefit."

Malfoy smiled with his mouth alone. "Maybe I like being unsettled."

"Not when other people can see it, you don't," Harry said.

Malfoy again reacted in an unexpected fashion, ducking his chin towards his chest and giving Harry a faint smile. Harry stared. Malfoy murmured, "How can you say that you don't understand anything about me, when you know that?"

Harry shook his head. He wanted to acknowledge a warmth that spread down the center of his chest like the path of a tongue, and then again, he didn't. "Never mind, Malfoy. Are you going to tell me about your parents' contacts?"

"I want you concentrating on me," Malfoy said, and Harry, listening, heard the strain in his voice. "Not on them. I want to be seen for who I am, as well as a Malfoy. The Weasleys can be part of the family and individuals at the same time; why can't I?"

Harry lowered his eyes. He could hardly dispute with that wish, remembering when he had sometimes felt overwhelmed by the shadows of his father and mother, especially with Snape. "Yes, all right. I understand."

Malfoy gave him a brilliant smile and shot across the Pitch, grabbing the Snitch near the right edge of the grass. Harry pursued, and forgot about his words for a time.

But that smile lingered with him.

* * *

"Are you all right, Harry? It seems something is preoccupying you lately."

Harry started and looked up a little guiltily as Hermione sat down beside him. He had law books spread across the bed in a fan, and he hadn't even noticed her coming into the room. "Sorry," he said. "I've been studying more intensely the past few days. That's probably it."

Hermione leaned forwards and examined him. Harry felt his eyes cross, trying to maintain that gaze. He didn't know what she saw in his face or why she would want to study him from that close, but he would put up with it.

"That's not it," Hermione said.

"Why not?" Harry shifted and then reached over to make sure that he hadn't crumpled a page when he moved. He would have checked that Hermione hadn't crumpled them when she sat down, either, but he knew Hermione was more careful than damaging a book would imply.

"Because you get a certain look in your eyes when you're charging ahead on a course that you think can help someone." Hermione settled back comfortably, and, sure enough, managed to find some space for herself without disturbing a single book in the process. "You have it now. Abstract study never does that for you."

Harry frowned a bit. He didn't know what to say. It wasn't like he could tell her about the dreams.

_Although, why not? She would probably have the best advice of anyone on how to deal with them, and it's hard for me to lie to her._

But for some reason, Harry also felt that Hermione would become _too _interested in the dreams. She would want to find some way of entering them with him, or at least of helping him with his research. And Harry didn't want that. This was his dream, to work with alone. His Malfoys, to protect and preserve—if they would let him. Harry had spent last night in the dream arguing with the elder Malfoys again, and though he thought Narcissa was beginning to come around, Lucius still acted as if he were a dog who had inexplicably learned to talk.

"I've been trying to figure out Malfoy," Harry said, picking the first topic that sprang to mind. "Sometimes he acts as though he wants to be my friend, sometimes he acts as though nothing is further from his mind, and sometimes he acts as though he suspects me of suspecting him. He did that today, just because he caught me reading his trial records and I asked him a question about his parents."

"Why _were _you reading his trial records?"

Harry resisted the temptation to put his head in his hands. He did wish that he was a better liar, right about now. It would have made it a lot easier to keep a secret that he was determined to keep.

"Because I want to understand him," he said calmly. "And because I think his trials could make a good model for future Dark wizard trials. Sometimes the crimes they're accused of aren't as heinous as the ones the Malfoys were accused of, sometimes they're worse, but either way, the defense in those trials was excellent."

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Hermione asked, successfully distracted. "Logical, focused, balanced between precedent and rhetoric and appeals to pragmatism…"

Harry relaxed as Hermione began to babble on about the Death Eater trials, and reminded himself that he would have to come up with another reason to be worried and occupied in the future. Malfoy by himself wasn't enough of an excuse.

_Of course. He isn't enough of an excuse for anything._

But for some reason, it was still the face of Malfoy in his own world that Harry thought of that night as he fell asleep. Malfoy as he had been that afternoon, no less, grinning, rather than Hermione or the law records he had promised himself that he would memorize or even the face of Draco that swam out of the depths to appear in front of him.

* * *

"You won't be gone long? You'll come back to us as soon as you have something to report?"

Harry squeezed Draco's hand comfortingly and nodded. "I promise," he said. "Discipula might try to keep me away, but I have a legal right to see you now, as your barrister, and if she was going to accuse me of conspiring to free you, then I think she would have done it already." He paused, suddenly caught by a suspicion and a question that he probably should have asked earlier. "What kind of person is she? Is she on the Wizengamot?"

"What? No." Draco shook his head. He was still playing with Harry's fingers, sending random jolts of warmth down his arm and to his shoulder. "She's the Ministry's representative at the trials. The Minister would have been here himself, but he's busy. He trusts her with everything. I forget the official title. Undersecretary, or something like that."

Harry swallowed, cold worming through him. Draco's lack of specificity meant he couldn't be sure, but it sounded as though Discipula occupied the same position in this world that Umbridge had occupied in his.

_Yes, you can't be sure, _he reminded himself, _and since she's smarter anyway, it would be a mistake to judge her by Umbridge's standards. _He extricated his hand from Draco's and nodded. "Thanks for telling me. Between her and Longbottom, which one would you say has greater political power?"

"Long—" Draco said, and paused. For the first time, Harry thought he looked his actual age, as he carefully considered the question. "What an interesting idea," Draco murmured.

"Is it?" Harry had thought that Discipula probably held the power, although Neville seemed pretty good at smiling for the crowd, but the way that Draco reacted made him wonder if the common perception was the other way around. And the common perception might not be wrong. Harry really knew very little about this world. "I didn't know—I mean, Longbottom has a lot of popularity, but I was never very powerful back in my world, even if I defeated Voldemort. Then again, I never wanted to be."

Draco smiled uncontrollably at him; Harry had noticed that he did that whenever Harry said Voldemort's name, now that he had got over dropping his jaw open when he heard it. "Yes, I think Longbottom wants to be," Draco said. "But Discipula has always been there. She intervened a few times when someone wanted to take Longbottom away from the school for the safety of the other students. And she was the one who said that he had to spend time with his grandmother when there were people who were eager to have him over to stay in their houses. I think that she kept him safe and modest."

Thoughtfully, Harry squeezed Draco's hand one more time and then knocked on the door of the room. It felt as though not much more than a few hours had passed since he was here, but, of course, with the slower way that time seemed to flow in the dreams, that might or might not be true.

Discipula opened the door herself, smiling and bowing her head to him. Harry studied her closely, watching for signs of a lie in her facial expression. He couldn't see them, but he didn't think that meant she was perfectly sincere. She was probably just a good liar in the way that Harry wished he could be.

"Mr. Evans," she said. "Am I correct in thinking that you require some place to stay while you're working with and for the Malfoys?" No resentment in her tone, despite the fact that he had challenged her in front of everyone. Harry gave up trying to read her for now. He had learned that it might be more damaging for a barrister to come to a wrong conclusion than to go into a situation with too little information.

"Yes, I need somewhere to stay," he said. "I had thought the Three Broomsticks—"

"Oh, no, the Three Broomsticks burned down during the war, and hasn't been rebuilt yet." Discipula turned up the intensity of her smile a notch. "But, of course, you wouldn't have heard about that, as isolated from the world as you are. I should have realized. I should think that you can stay in the official boardinghouse that we used during the other trials for witnesses and advocates, however." She turned away and motioned someone standing behind her forwards. "You can trust my assistant to bring you anything you need."

Harry found himself staring into the face of a young woman with closely-bound brown hair, thick glasses, and a face that made her look as though she had spent all her time reading about the follies of human beings and had grown to loathe them because of it. He had to swallow twice before he could speak. "Miss—Granger?"

Hermione nodded briskly to him. But it wasn't Hermione. Harry had never seen her looking like this, even when she had been most irritated with him and Ron because they hadn't done their homework. Her eyes were sour, her smile nonexistent. She looked down at her book. "I have a room arranged for you," she said, in a flat voice that made her sound very different from Harry's friend. "Will you follow me?"

Harry nodded to Discipula and did so, hoping that he hadn't exposed too much of his utter shock at Hermione's appearance to the woman's watchful eyes. For a few moments, while they turned around many corners and down the endless corridors of the building, which seemed to be some sort of administration place that didn't exist in Harry's world, Harry worked to catch his whirling thoughts up with reality.

Then he wondered what Hermione would have been like if he and Ron had never befriended her. (It was still possible that Ron might be her friend, of course, but Harry didn't think so. She looked as though she had never liked anyone). Neville, in either world, probably wasn't of the right temperament to draw people together like that. He would appeal to the crowd, Harry thought, not a few special friends. And he had been reared in the wizarding world, so he probably had all sorts of friends and playmates before he went to Hogwarts, unlike the Muggle-reared Harry.

"I think it's admirable that you're trying to do something about making Muggleborns less isolated from our counterparts."

Harry blinked and came out of his thoughts. The compliment was thin and acidic. If Hermione _really _thought he was admirable, it sure didn't sound like it. "But you're Muggleborn yourself," he said. "Your position is higher than mine, and more people must look to you rather than to me to get us a position in the wizarding world."

Hermione froze and then turned around slowly and faced him. Harry had never known that her face did an expression of disdain so well. He stood there while she walked towards him and stood studying him minutely from an inch away. At least she shared one trait with the Hermione he knew, Harry thought. She didn't mind making people uncomfortable examining them, or cross-examining them.

"You're making fun of me," Hermione finally said, her voice low and precise. "I don't enjoy that."

"I'm not making fun of you," Harry said. "Why would I be? You do have a higher position than mine, and people must look up to you. They look up to Discipula, and I can't see her choosing someone to serve her who's so stupid that she pisses people off every time she moves around."

Hermione's hand clenched down on the pack of papers she was carrying, and she took a deep, careful breath that made Harry have to bite his lip. It sounded far too much like the breath that a bull would take right before the charge.

"I'm not popular," Hermione said. "I'm not a _Gryffindor_, or a savior of the world, or a war heroine, and right now, those are the only people of any account in our world, in much the same way that Death Eaters are the biggest criminals."

_Score one difference, _Harry thought, staring at her in fascination. _She's probably going to tell me that she was in Ravenclaw, the way that Hermione—my Hermione—once said she would have been if she wanted to be._

"I am a _Ravenclaw_," Hermione said. "I'm someone who _knows _how long it's going to take Muggleborns to become really part of the wizarding world, and never mind all that noble rot about equality that the Gryffindors like to spout. Our precious Savior is still a pure-blood. People like the Malfoys still aren't put to death on the instant." She fixed Harry with a long stare that said she knew who to blame for that.

Harry shook his head. It was hard for him to speak around his astonishment, but he knew that he had to find some way to do it. "But—don't you see that oppressing the pure-bloods would be just as bad as oppressing the Muggleborns? And I don't think Longbottom can help his heritage."

"He could be a bit more kind," Hermione spat. "Less condescending when someone like me has to help him. And the Malfoys still got all sorts of considerations that they wouldn't if they were Muggleborn."

"Er." Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and wondered for a moment whether he would get anywhere by arguing with her. He didn't think so. This wasn't the woman he knew, with the same friendship with him and the same background. But he found himself trying anyway. "But surely no Muggleborns committed the same level of crimes? I mean, Voldemort wouldn't have wanted them in his ranks."

Hermione paused and gave him a closer look. Harry blinked back and resisted the temptation to move away from her.

"Maybe you're more than I thought you were," Hermione murmured, as if she was evaluating a scientific specimen. "Certainly braver than I thought you were, if you dare to speak his name."

"What, I wasn't brave to defend someone—multiple someones—that no one else would defend?" Harry asked. He didn't know if he was joking or if he really wanted her to agree, but either way, he thought he deserved a better response than the hardening of her eyes.

"I don't think you planned it," she answered. "You just charged ahead and dealt with all the consequences after they began to happen. If you had gone to Hogwarts, you would have been a Gryffindor like all the rest of them."

Harry concealed his wince with difficulty. _She still knows me. _

"It's _stupid_," Hermione continued, her voice rising. "There are better ways to run things. More logical ways. But wizards have no logic. Take the law that you're invoking to defend them, for example. The Good Stranger Exception. Who cares about that? Who cares that a centaur once defended a bunch of wizards? Centaurs remain outside the Ministry and the centralization of the wizarding world for all that. Who cares that I'm the Undersecretary's assistant? Most people like me still can't afford good positions because of their lack of power and influence." She shook her head in disgust.

"Er," Harry said again. This time, he didn't have a response ready to hand.

Hermione took a deep breath, looked around as though she had suddenly realized that they were arguing in the middle of a public place, or at least a corridor, and began walking again. Harry had to hurry after her as she rounded the next corner with more speed than Harry thought decent. "Well," Hermione said, as though picking up their conversation in the middle, which she probably was. "There weren't any Muggleborn Death Eaters. _He _didn't trust them in his inner circle. There were people who helped _him_ and were Muggleborn, though."

"And?" Harry asked. "Weren't they accorded a defense?"

"No," Hermione said. "They were simply executed."

Harry stared at her back.

Hermione gave him a glance over her shoulder, her smile mocking. "I told you. They talk a good game, but they don't play by the rules for anyone except pure-bloods. They _make _the rules, and as long as that's true, I don't think you need to talk to me about truth and justice. Even the people you risk yourself for are pure-bloods. People like you and me—they're taught that there's some sort of romance and mysticism about the pure-bloods, something _mystical _that needs to be honored." She snorted and continued to walk briskly down the corridor in the direction of, Harry hoped, an exit. "Excuse me for not thinking you're a hero because you're doing the same thing as everyone else."

Harry followed Hermione down the corridor, thinking hard. He still believed defending the Malfoys was right. He couldn't help the people who were already dead, and the Malfoys still deserved representation even if the larger system was fucked up.

But he would have to think a lot more about how many things had really changed in this universe.

_Dream. Place. Whatever it is._


	6. More Old Friends

Thank you for all the reviews!

_Chapter Six—More Old Friends_

The building that Hermione took him to stay in was dim and gloomy. Harry wrinkled his nose as he opened the door of the room he'd been assigned. Sure, it had a bed, a bathroom, a desk and chair and an actual window, but it still smelled as if it had been shut up for years.

Hermione turned around just in time to catch the expression on his face, of course, and she didn't seem to share, at all, the sensibilities that made him wear it. She gave him a poisonous smile. "Did you expect that you would have a good room when you've been foolish enough to oppose my employer?" she asked. "Really?"

Harry shook his head. "Do you admire her or not?" he asked, ducking into the room. He could cope with the dust by using Cleaning Charms, he thought. He should save his strongest opposition for those moments when his distaste could make an actual difference. "Sometimes you sound as though you do, or at least admire her power, and other times you make her sound like part of the establishment that keeps Muggleborns oppressed."

Hermione didn't respond, but the door slammed. Harry raised his eyebrows at it and set about cleaning off the dust from the table and chair. When he was settled in it, he looked out the window.

It was enchanted, he saw at once, reflecting a peaceful lakeside scene with people sailing back and forth in small boats. It was pleasant to look at, but it told him nothing, except that the Ministry had once spent some money on this building. He wondered if they'd ceased to keep it up when they stopped having such a flood of advocates and witnesses after the trials.

_The Malfoys must be the last, or nearly the last, _he thought, and that accorded with the memories of his own world.

He didn't have anything to unpack. He suspected that he would have to find food and clothes somewhere in this world, but so far he wasn't hungry. He went to clean off the bed and examine the bathroom. It was an utterly ordinary room, and if Harry had hoped to find any clues to Discipula's evil plans in there, he was foiled. Then he told himself that of course he hadn't meant to find anything. He'd just wanted to look, that was all.

Someone knocked on the door. It was an utterly dispirited knock, and Harry went to answer it wondering if he would find a house-elf there. He didn't know if he could cope with another melancholy house-elf, after Dobby's death.

Ron was standing there.

Harry had to stare, just the way he had with Hermione. Ron was taller and thinner than he was in Harry's own world, his shaggy red hair unkempt. He stared past Harry's shoulder at the wall and immediately began mumbling what sounded like a generic speech of greeting. He had named several "activities" around the building and had started praising the food before Harry roused himself.

"You're a Weasley," he said. "I can tell from the hair. What's your name?"

Ron blinked and looked at him as if Harry had done something that forced him to pay attention, although nothing interesting enough to lift the look of boredom. "Ron Weasley," he said. "The youngest one."

Harry winced back from the bitterness in the depths of his voice and said, "I thought there was a daughter."

"Yes, once," Ron said. "She died in her first year at Hogwarts."

Harry leaned against the wall, not able to stand when he felt as though all the wind was knocked out of him. Did that mean Lucius had succeeded with the diary plot in this world? But then it seemed Voldemort would have come back in Neville's second year, and Harry didn't know how Neville could have stopped him. Everyone certainly spoke and acted as though his victory was recent.

"My name is Harry Evans," Harry said, keeping his false name just in time. He didn't know how many Potters survived here, if anyone did, but Ron was of a family that might know them, since they'd been pure-bloods. "I'm a stranger in town, and I'm beginning to feel just how much of a stranger I am. I don't know anything I should know, since my family mostly keeps out of contact with the wizarding world. Would you be averse to telling me the most important events of the last several years?"

Ron stepped forwards at that and stared at him. "Granger said something about how you were the barrister for the Malfoys," he said. "You _do _know that they don't deserve to be defended, right? Lucius Malfoy killed my sister."

Harry swallowed as that confirmed his suspicions. "I didn't know," he said. "I don't know anything."

Ron seemed to wake up a little for the first time, studying him with cooler eyes than Harry was used to. Even awake and alert, Harry thought, he had almost no passion. That was so different from the hot-tempered Ron he was used to that he winced again, wondering what in the world had happened here. Of course he had already thought that Neville was unlikely to make close friends in Gryffindor the way Harry had, but why had his best friends' lives turned out so much for the worse? They had still survived the war.

_Maybe I'm here for more reasons than just defending the Malfoys._

"I'll come in and tell you," Ron said, nodding slowly, judiciously. "And then you can tell me whether you really want to keep defending those murderers."

* * *

Harry spent even longer under the shower that morning, trying to warm away the chill of having seen such a different Ron and Hermione right in succession. Then he shook his head and turned the water off.

It was dreams. Only dreams. Yes, he had to admit that their intensity and clarity was unnatural, but then again, he had already admitted that they were probably the result of a miscast curse. As long as it did him no more harm than this, Harry thought he didn't have much to complain about.

He had no reason to let these dreams influence his interaction with other people—Malfoy, Ron, Hermione, Neville, none of them. Sure, he might look at them with some more speculation now, because he had seen a vision of them in another world, but still, it didn't mean he had to be kinder or harsher with real people because of what he had seen in his dreams. In fact, it would be fatal if he did, because they wouldn't know why he was acting that way.

He had to keep the two lives, one awake, one asleep, separate. When he began to fail in that, he didn't know what would happen.

Once again, Hermione called him through the wall, and once again, Harry hurried because he knew they would be late to their case otherwise. But he sat at the table that morning and watched Ron and Hermione's faces for nuances he wasn't sure he could see.

Would Hermione really be that different if she hadn't been in Gryffindor with them? And why hadn't she wanted to be brave in that world, instead of a follower of the rules? Had she read fewer books before she went to Hogwarts, or more? Had she been miserable in Ravenclaw, or proud? Harry had no idea how that House in general felt about Muggleborn people.

And Ron…Would losing Ginny have transformed him that way? But Harry couldn't think that even Ginny's death would make him so hard and uncaring. Towards the Malfoys, yes, but towards everyone? The Ron he had seen in the dream wasn't a man with a grudge, but a man who simply didn't care.

"Something wrong, mate?"

Harry started and realized that he had been staring at Ron across the table instead of eating his breakfast. He cleared his throat and applied himself to his food. "No," he muttered. "Sorry. I had a bit of a rough night. Strange dreams."

He could _feel _the significant glance that Ron and Hermione exchanged, and grimaced. They were always waiting for his visions to return, although Harry insisted that they'd died with Voldemort. Hermione seemed to think he had a natural gift of some kind and wanted him to get tested. Ron simply worried that their happiness was too good to last and it would turn out Voldemort was alive after all.

"Tell me about the dreams," Hermione said in a patient voice. She didn't lean forwards and rap a hand on the table in front of Harry to get him to pay attention to her, the way she usually did, either. "Are they like visions? Do you feel as if you're standing in the presence of the people you see? Have you confirmed anything that happened with articles the next day?"

Harry shook his head. "No, Hermione. How would I do that? I'm not dreaming about the future. I'm dreaming about—things that could have been." Maybe he could at least tell them that, although he still didn't want them interfering and trying to take the dreams away. It was very hard to lie to his best friends, and Harry wondered how he had managed to do it a few times in the past. It helped that there was usually at least one person in on the secret, like Dumbledore knowing about the Horcruxes during their sixth year. And he'd told them that in the end.

"That's right!" Hermione snapped her fingers. "You said something the other day about Neville being the Boy-Who-Lived, and what we thought he would have been like. Did you dream about something else? Someone else?"

Harry hesitated only a second. He didn't want to mix the real people and the dream people up, but what if talking to the real people could help him understand the dream people? It was at least worth a try. "Yes. You had been in Ravenclaw and you were colder and more academic and bitter."

A sad smile played around Hermione's lips. "Well, I didn't have many friends in primary school," she murmured. "I put that down to reading all the time and to magic, later, when I found out about magic, but I reckon I might have been the same as this woman you describe if I went to Hogwarts and didn't eventually make friends."

"They were stupid to despise you," Ron said, though Harry noted he stuffed a scone into his mouth, as if to carefully diminish the impact of his words. "They should have realized that having someone smarter around is a good thing. You can copy from their homework, for example."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ron, it wasn't that kind of bitterness Harry is talking about," she said. "If I went on thinking I was superior and that was the only reason people wouldn't make friends with me, I might have ended up the way he described because I would feel isolated."

Harry wasn't sure that was the answer—what in the world would have made the Hermione he knew work for someone like Discipula?—but he nodded anyway. He glanced at Ron. "And you were bitter, too," he added. "You looked as if you were indifferent to everything around you. But I dreamed about Ginny dying because of Tom Riddle, too. So I don't know if you were bitter because of that."

Ron sighed and stared at his hands. Harry watched him with some concern, and so did Hermione. Ron usually had a glib answer to most things ready nowadays. He must be thinking deeply if he didn't.

"When I was a boy," Ron said lowly, "I felt like I was part of a pack of Weasleys. Nothing made me different from my brothers. I told you that," he added, looking up at Harry. "Ginny was the girl, and Bill was the smart one, and Charlie was the dangerous one, and Perry was the proper one, and the twins had their jokes. I didn't know what would make me stand out. It made me feel a little better when you chose me to be your friend. Especially when you chose me over _Malfoy_."

Harry smiled and nodded. He wondered for a moment if that was the only source of Ron's problems in the dreams. How would he feel when he realized that Harry would carry forwards his commitment to defending the Malfoys?

_You're thinking of the dream Ron as if he was real._

But Harry couldn't shake the conviction that it might be both better and simpler if he acted like the dream Ron, and all the others, too, were real. At least it would confuse him less when he came back into the dream. He couldn't take the Malfoys' plight seriously and refuse to take the others seriously, too.

"Why would you dream that Ginny was dead?" Ron asked then.

"And that we were different?" Hermione added.

Harry gave some vague answer that let them think what they wished—that it was a coincidence, or magic, or the result of the gift Hermione was convinced he had—and they were satisfied. Harry, meanwhile, wondered what he should study today. Was there anything in his law books that would tell him how he should act around Ron and Hermione in the dream? Perhaps he should look up the way that Muggleborns had started winning legal rights in the wizarding world, something Hermione had been nagging him to study forever.

* * *

"Potter!"

Harry jumped. He wondered for a moment how the voice had got through the thick wards that wrapped his building, and then remembered that he and Hermione hadn't wrapped the spells as thickly around the windows as elsewhere. If a fire started outside or someone attacked an innocent trying to get them to respond, then Hermione wanted to know about it.

Harry leaned out and saw Malfoy standing on the street beneath him, staring up at Harry with his hands on his hips. Harry blinked at him, his thoughts scattering in a thousand different directions. All he could remember at the moment was what he had just read about Quintus Malfoy, one of those who had fought against the legal restriction of Muggle-hunting. Did Malfoy share his ancestor's opinions?

And then Harry remembered that he and Malfoy had been scheduled to practice Quidditch at four this afternoon, and he sighed. "Ah, _shit_," he said. Malfoy was going to be insufferable over this.

"Are you going to let me in or not, Potter? Unless apologizing to me in person is as unimportant to you as the game evidently is."

Harry winced. He thought there was real hurt underlying Malfoy's tone, but that made him no less annoyed by the words—more annoyed, really, because now he would probably feel like a berk if he reacted to them. He shook his head and yelled back down, "I forgot. It's not like it's a deliberate insult."

Malfoy looked at him without a reply, his eyes narrowing, and then gestured with his head at the street around them. "Do you really want this to be public?" he asked. A few of the passersby who sometimes hung around Harry's office when there was no other entertainment in the immediate neighborhood had started to drift over.

Harry sighed and lifted the wards on the front door. "I've made a place for you to come in," he said. "Go around. _Alone_."

Malfoy took the nuance, nodded, and vanished. Harry heard the sounds of a brief struggle as someone else tried to come in, but Malfoy must have successfully fought them off, because he appeared in the office by himself.

He took a moment to study the books that lined the shelves and flowed over the desks and sat piled on the floor. Harry had never thought much about it before, but now he suddenly realized how messy the office could appear in a stranger's eyes. He tugged self-consciously at his shirt collar and tried to make sure there was no dust on his robes without Malfoy noticing that he was checking.

"What did you want, besides an apology?" he asked. "I can practice with you tomorrow, I promise. I just got caught up in the books and forgot."

"Do you always forget your promises, Harry?" Malfoy leaned against one of the sturdier piles of books, a sardonic smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "Or only the ones that you don't really want to keep?"

"I made a commitment," Harry said shortly. His irritation was increasing, and he would have liked to flick his wand and hurl Malfoy through the window again. He would have made sure he landed safely, of course. "I'm embarrassed I forgot it. I'll be on time tomorrow. But you're acting as though you don't want to practice with me today, so what else _do _you want?"

"To see where you work," Malfoy said easily, and then turned and began to wander as if he hadn't seen and evaluated the whole office in one glance a few minutes earlier. "Not many people get that privilege."

Harry made a face at his back. He had to wonder if Malfoy knew how to speak sincerely. His drawl and his sarcasm would change a compliment into an insult no matter how he tried to phrase it.

Then Harry paused. _I wonder if I've mistaken any of what he's said to me, because of that. _

Oblivious to his thoughts, Malfoy snorted and then sneezed. A cloud of dust rose up in front of him. When Malfoy drew his wand and cast a Cleaning Charm, Harry thought of the way he had reacted to the dust in the room of his dream. Why notice it there, he wondered, and not here, where he spent part of every day?

"This place is a pigsty, Potter," Malfoy muttered. "I certainly hope that you keep house better than you keep office."

"Since when would you concern yourself with that?" Harry sniped back. "Angling for an invitation?"

"That's what you could do, in fact," Malfoy said, turning around again and smiling at him. "Take me out to dinner."

Harry blinked. "What does dinner have to do with housekeeping skills?" he asked. He thought it was a reasonable question, but Malfoy gave him a pointed, mocking glance of the kind that he used to use in Hogwarts, and which, Harry discovered, still had the power to make him burn. He clenched his fists and scowled.

"I have to wonder about many of your skills," Malfoy said. "Oh, yes, you're good on a broom. But can you cook? How neat are you? What good are you at law if you can't even see that the books you depend on to teach you need dusting?"

Harry scowled at him. "Look," he said. "We're—we're not friends."

"We're friends enough that I trust you not to throw me off my broom several hundred feet above the ground," Malfoy said easily. "If that's not friendship, what is it?"

"I don't know," Harry said, and had to turn his head away, because otherwise he would grin, and he didn't think Malfoy needed the encouragement. "I told you before that you're weird, that you don't fit in with my life. And sometimes you act as though you need my friendship and me to train with you, and sometimes you act as if you don't care whether I like you or not. Why? What makes the difference?"

Malfoy was silent, which Harry hadn't expected. He turned back and found Malfoy leaning on the wall, face silent and thoughtful. He sucked on his lower lip and then studied Harry for a moment before nodding.

"I find that you bring my childhood back to me," Malfoy said. "And sometimes I act as though I was a child again, because of that. Then, too, I see the way you act now, and the ways you've changed, and I want to aspire to that. I wasn't your friend once, but perhaps I can be now. It tugs me back and forth. _You _tug me back and forth. You always have. There's something else I want," he added, in a tone that made it seem as if it wasn't relevant. "But I know I can't have it."

Harry shook his head. "Well, at least that's opened up a new side of _you_ to me," he said. "I thought you never hesitated if there was something you wanted. I thought you always took it."

Malfoy's eyes kindled. He looked like he was about to get into a massive row with Harry, and Harry was glad. He didn't want to be discussing and listening to uncomfortable things, things that made him wonder if he had ever known Malfoy at all and if he should have done more to save him.

"Well," Malfoy said, "are you encouraging me to go ahead and take this thing that I want from you?"

"If you think you can," Harry said. He was already prepared to defend his wand, if that was what Malfoy would try to take, and his Invisibility Cloak and his broom weren't here.

Malfoy stepped forwards. Harry felt his eyes widen and his excitement begin to peak. Was Malfoy really going to duel him? Harry started to think of ways he could do that without destroying half the books.

Malfoy came closer still, and reached out, and the next thing Harry knew, a tongue like cool water slipped into his mouth.

Harry gasped around it, and then stood there like a statue for a few stupid moments while Malfoy slowly, languorously, tasted him. That was the only word Harry could find for what he was doing. He could have made it into a full-on snog like the ones that Ron and Hermione still shared; he could have driven into Harry's mouth and bit him to punish him for his sins in the past. But instead, he tasted, as if it really mattered to him what Harry tasted like, as if that would help him to some kind of decision.

Harry finally came to his senses and wrenched away. Malfoy had a firm enough grip on Harry's face and arm that he kept kissing for a second after Harry had woken up. Then he stepped away and grinned at Harry.

"You told me to take what I wanted," he said. His voice was lower, his lips swollen. Harry hated to think about the cause. "So I did."

"That's—_stupid_, Malfoy," Harry said, when he could talk. "You wanted _that_? Why in the world? Why would you care about something like that?"

"Because I'm still being tugged back and forth, but I'm also learning a new way of being, thanks to you." Malfoy tugged his shirt back into place and then nodded briskly to Harry, as though there was nothing else he needed to do to make things normal again. "I wanted to share that new way of being with you. That was the best way to do it. Now. Dinner?" He turned away and walked to the top of the stairs.

Harry spluttered behind him. "You want to—to date me, or something?"

Malfoy turned back to regard him with wide, luminous eyes. "I don't know yet," he said. "Not for certain. This will help me decide. Where are we going? No, wait," he continued. "I'll choose the restaurant. We both know that you don't have many skills, after all, and I don't want it to turn out that choosing a restaurant is another of those you lack."

He left, and for all Harry's impulse to kick something, there was nothing to do in the end but follow him.


	7. A Tilting Balance

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Seven—A Tilting Balance_

It was hard, Harry discovered, to stop staring at someone who had kissed you.

Malfoy, who had chosen the expensive Italian—and Muggle—restaurant they sat in, seemed unconcerned. He chattered with the waiter in Italian, smiling at him in a way that suggested that perhaps he went around kissing people all the time. (And of course he spoke Italian. Harry didn't know why he had started in surprise when the first words came out of the git's mouth. He probably spoke French, too, and Latin, and Classical Greek, and anything that had once been a pretentious, educated person's language).

Malfoy had looked at him with a raised eyebrow when Harry jumped. Harry shook his head and muttered and went back to studying his menu. He finally chose a concoction that looked like it was mostly pasta. That couldn't do him any harm, surely. Malfoy ordered something with at least ten syllables in its name and then leaned back in his chair, looking around the restaurant with a relaxed air.

"_This _is true elegance," he said. "To be shown to a table at once, but at a normal walking pace, with no waiting and no rushing."

"I think you were lying," Harry muttered, and gulped at his water. Malfoy had attacked him from a completely random direction in the office, so Harry thought the best thing to do was attack from a completely random one back.

Malfoy focused on him, and if only the narrowing of his eyes showed how displeased he was by the very idea, Harry had still caused the prat to give himself away. He felt vindicated. "Excuse me?"

"I mean," Harry said, with one more violent gulp before he put his water down, "I don't think that you've ever been denied anything you want. The waiter showed you to a table at once, and you speak as though you've had plenty of chances to compare this restaurant with others like it. And you're _on_ a professional Quidditch team, even though they didn't have to take you if they really hated you. So that must mean that you were lying about needing me to train you. You—you probably get treated just fine."

It was difficult to finish his speech under Malfoy's withering stare. Malfoy leaned forwards and clasped his hands on the table, all his former ease gone. Harry felt a bit bad for stealing it.

"Done yet?" Malfoy asked.

Harry nodded and tried to study the menu again, then realized the waiter had taken them away and he couldn't. He hid behind his water glass instead.

"I was accepted because the Eagles' Seeker trials were open," Malfoy said. "No one who had seen me fly—and there was a large crowd—could deny that I was better than the other applicants for the position. They took me because they had to, but they could make me reserve, behind the bloke they already had, and they did. And they'll get rid of me as soon as they can. When they have an excuse, perhaps when the idiot injures himself and I have to play and they can accuse me of cheating, then they'll throw me off the team. I _have _to avoid that."

Harry sighed. "I just—Malfoy, you don't have to do this. You could train with someone else, I told you."

Malfoy scoffed, leaning back in his chair and looking at Harry with strange intensity under his fringe. "Why would you assume I'd _want _to, given the extra information I revealed to you in your office?"

The kiss. Right. Harry plucked at his trousers and peered at Malfoy under his fringe in return.

"Don't do that, you look like a sheepdog," Malfoy said irritably. Harry sat up with a relieved smile—here was something they could fight about, a personal insult!—but Malfoy went on, and with a calmness to his words that suggested he was rehearsing something he'd often repeated to himself. "I told you the truth. I want to train with someone who can give me more than enough skills to remain part of the Eagles forever, or at least as long as I want to. And I fancy you. The Quidditch training was an excuse for me to approach you, but not an invented one. I do need your help."

"I don't," Harry said, and then had to shut up, because it seemed that Malfoy hadn't finished. He held up a single finger so commanding that Harry fell silent and then scowled at the table, because he hadn't meant to be such a coward.

"I know what you're doing. A relationship with me, or even the thought of one, frightens you. So you're trying to back off and put distance between us, in the hopes that I'll become frightened, too, or discouraged, and go away." Malfoy shook his head at him with the same intensity he had used to glare. "It won't work, Harry. I might as well call you that now, since we've snogged."

"I am not fucking _frightened_," Harry protested, when he could catch his breath.

"What a filthy mouth you have," Malfoy murmured, and his eyes gleamed. "One can only hope that you're willing to dirty it in other ways."

Harry pictured, because he had to, some of the ways that he might dirty it with Malfoy. From Malfoy's wicked smile, he knew exactly where Harry's thoughts had gone, and he _liked _it. Harry ground his teeth and pushed ahead. There had to be a vein of good sense in Malfoy somewhere; he'd never done anything that wasn't ultimately for his own advantage. All Harry had to do was find it, and then he could show it to Malfoy, and Malfoy would express gratitude to Harry for saving him from a horrible mistake.

"I'm not frightened. You just have to see that a relationship between us could never work, given my job and your job and my friends."

"The last objection, I can certainly see," Malfoy said. "Though Granger seems tolerable now. But what have our jobs to do with it? My job is what finally drew us together, after all." He examined his nails.

Harry groaned. He wanted to bang his head on the table, but he thought that would have been a bit odd even here in this Muggle restaurant where no one knew them. He waited for several minutes instead, and in the meantime their food came, and Malfoy took many large bites of his and made noises that made Harry want to hit him.

"You have to see that this can't work," he said, and he hoped that his voice was calm, because he had certainly waited long enough for it to be. "Because—well, for a lot of reasons, but among them, the sheer _stupidity _of trying to be together. I would annoy you because I would go off and be a barrister and never be able to attend your games. You would annoy me because you would insist on playing on the road all the time, and I would never get to see you. And it's, I never thought of you that way."

_Not true, _he decided then. It was becoming harder to lie to himself since he had taken up the study of law, even if he could lie to Malfoy, because he spent too much time thinking and studying and clearing out the inside of his skull from old beliefs and prejudices. _You were fantasizing about the Draco in the dreams, a bit._

But that didn't mean he could think of the real Draco in the same way. Harry ate a bit of his food and then looked back at Malfoy, wondering what he would say.

Malfoy was staring at him with burning eyes, full of delight. Harry stiffened. Exactly what had he said that Malfoy could interpret as cause for hope?

"You're giving it some thought." Malfoy bobbed his head as though he was nodding to some grand favor Harry had done him. "That means that you must believe in it more than you're willing to acknowledge to yourself. And that means that I might hope to look into your eyes someday and hear you speak my name with the passion that I want."

"_Listen _to yourself," Harry said. "Do you really want this? You said that you were being pulled one way and then another. How do you know that I won't drive you away just when you think that you could settle down with me?"

Malfoy smirked at him in a manner that was familiar from school. "I'm willing to wait and find out if that actually happens, the way that I was willing to wait and see if I stopped fancying you when I started."

Harry did at least smack his forehead with his hand, which earned a startled glance from their waiter when he came up to ask if there was anything else he could get them.

* * *

Ron leaned back in his chair and took a large drink of the Firewhiskey that he had had brought up halfway through his tale. "So that's the size of it," he said. "It's murderers you're defending, and if you had a decent thought in your skull, you would back away from it." But he didn't say it with the temper that Harry's Ron would have used; he had been mellowed a bit by the whisky, perhaps.

_Or he just doesn't care about anything, _Harry thought, staring into the fire so that he could avoid staring at Ron. Ron had given him an accurate picture of what was happening in the world around him, or at least a semi-accurate one, as well as what had happened in Weasley family life as a result of Ginny's death.

Apparently Mrs. Weasley had gathered her children closer to her and tighter than ever, or tried. Most of the others had run away from it somehow: Charlie had moved to Romania, the twins had found some unknown backer to start their joke shop, Bill was traveling the world, and Percy had moved out into another house as soon as he could. (It didn't surprise Harry to hear that he was working under Discipula, too). Ron was still at home, and he was still "one of the Weasley boys," and even though he had won several chess tournaments, he seemed to think that he would never distinguish himself as anything more than his parents' son.

And although Ron didn't know exactly what the events surrounding Ginny's death in second year were, because he'd never been close to Neville, he was at least able to tell Harry that Voldemort hadn't come back then. It was last year that he had really started showing his strength, the same way it had been in Harry's world, and then Neville had defeated him in a spectacular duel.

Sort of.

Harry wondered if the duel could be said to have happened if all the people who talked about seeing it were witnesses paid by the Ministry.

Then he shook his head and reminded himself that he couldn't be sure that was true. Ron had told him that, but this Ron was singularly more cynical and distrustful than the one Harry was used to.

Harry had tried angling towards the Potters whenever he thought that Ron might be amenable to that and unsuspicious. But Ron, although he had told him Neville's parents had died in the attack that gave Neville his scar rather than going to St. Mungo's as they had in Harry's world, hadn't said a word about James Potter or Lily Evans.

Harry put the thought aside with an effort. He didn't think he was here to find out why his alternate hadn't been born, or whether he was living in another part of the world, or what had happened to him. Ron had been at Hogwarts and in Gryffindor, and if he had known Harry Potter, he surely would have said that Harry looked like him. Even if he was very different, he would have had something of James's features, surely.

_The important people are the Malfoys. And Ron and Hermione. I want to do something for them. That must be the reason I came here. Because people in this world need my help, and I'm uniquely positioned to give it to them, in a way no one here can._

Harry felt himself relaxing as he thought that. Hermione might accuse him of hero-addiction, Malfoy might act—incomprehensible—and trust him for stupid reasons, and Ron might doubt the whole effort of doing good in the war, but the one thing Harry knew how to do best was help other people.

"You look as though you're planning something."

Harry started and looked up. He had forgotten that Ron was still in the room, and now he was leaning forwards, eyes narrowed, as though he had the ability Harry's best friend sometimes possessed, to see inside his head.

"You have to have given up your plan to defend the Malfoys," Ron said, half a demand. "You have to see that Lucius Malfoy is nothing but evil incarnate, if he could kill an eleven-year-old girl."

Harry licked his lips. It was hard to tell what Ron's bitterness hid, unlike Hermione's. She would talk without an invitation, but Harry didn't think she would attack him. Ron might talk along and then launch himself at Harry's throat when he learned that Harry had never intended to stop being the Malfoys' barrister.

"Even if I agree on that," Harry said, "what about his wife and son?"

Ron sneered. "I don't know the bitch, but Malfoy was a git during school. The world won't be worse off for having him out of it."

Harry thought of the broken Draco who had reached out to him trustingly, even when he had known it would irritate his parents, and shook his head. "I've spoken with him at length," he said. "I don't doubt that he was a git when he was a child, but right now he's someone condemned and fighting for his life."

Ron rose to his feet with dangerous slowness, staring at him the entire time. Harry gripped his wand, but Ron didn't punch him. Instead, he said, "I told you that. I gave you my secrets. And you can't give me anything in return."

He stalked out before Harry could say that that sentiment was worthy of a Slytherin—which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing, or Harry _would _have got punched—and slammed the door to behind him.

Harry licked his lips. _Well, that could have gone better. _

But he had more information now, and that would help guide his reaction to the Malfoys. He stood up and went to put the lamp that was burning on the windowsill out, so he could go to sleep.

_Do I have to sleep in the dream? _Well, if he didn't, Harry was sure he would find a way to make good use of his time.

He paused when the lamp first went out, because he had heard a noise in the corridor. When he listened again, he didn't hear it. But just as he was about to shake his head and dismiss it as his imagination, he heard it: a scurrying that sounded as if it was going towards the stairs.

Harry waited a few more moments, heart pounding, then eased the door open and studied the small crack of open space and light he could see beyond it.

Nothing.

There was no reason for him to suspect that a spy for Discipula had been watching him, but that was what Harry believed anyway, implicitly.

* * *

"Harry? Are you _sure _that you're all right?"

Harry nodded wearily to Hermione. It was strange. When he went to sleep in the dream, it was as if it stopped, and he had slept better last night, in the sense of having real, deep, dreamless hours, than he had in days. But he was groggy and tired today. The dreams seemed to be good for him, instead of exhausting.

"Well, keep up," Hermione said, after studying him for a moment. "We have a trial to observe this morning that's similar to the Death Eater trials." She opened the door of the courtroom and stepped inside.

Harry all but bounced as he strode after her. He couldn't remember Hermione mentioning that before, and he thought it was important. Who knew what he could learn here which could help the Malfoys in the other world?

The courtroom, like most of them, was a small, bare room, with enough seats for the judge and the witnesses and the small jury wizarding law required, but not much else. Even the barristers often had to stand—or maybe they were expected to stand all the time anyway, when they were making their arguments. That wasn't something Harry had figured out. Hermione Transfigured a few grains of dust into another pair of chairs and shoved them into the corner. Harry sat down, winced, and then cast a Cushioning Charm. Hermione was good at Transfiguration, but she often didn't think enough about comfort at the time she was performing the spell.

"What's he done?" he whispered to Hermione as they watched the prisoner step into the room, chained between two Aurors.

Hermione gave him a hard look. "Now I know something's wrong," she said. "You usually read the case file."

Harry shrugged. "I've been busy lately, what with the Quidditch training you thought it would be such a good idea for me to have with Malfoy."

Hermione's eyes widened and her face softened. "Oh, is that going well, Harry? I _do _hope that you're going to be friends. If you can show Ron that you can get over your grudges from the war, then maybe—"

"The case?" Harry reminded her, because people were starting to file in and he thought the trial would start soon. He wanted to have some idea of what he was looking at before then.

"Yes." Hermione gave him one slightly suspicious look, as if she knew that she had good reason to be concerned about him but couldn't remember what it was, and then turned back to examine the folder she was clutching. "They arrested a Dark potions brewer called Max Andrews. His barrister is trying to claim that he was only collecting ingredients for his cousin, who's living in a country where they're not illegal. And it's true they're having trouble tracing specific Dark activities to Andrews. If he's been active in the last couple of years, he's been remarkably discreet."

Harry studied the man who was leaning back in the chair for prisoners. He looked more than slightly bored. His stubble was bristly and dark, like his hair, and although Harry couldn't see the color of his eyes from this distance, he thought they might be blue. "Why do you say that his case is like the Death Eater cases?"

"Because they were going on hearsay there most of the time, too." Hermione smoothed her hands over the cloth of her robes, frowning. "I know there was eyewitness testimony for a lot of the things that happened, Harry, but most of the Death Eaters wore masks when they attacked, and most of them didn't have one signature curse. Someone might _think _that Bellatrix Lestrange was attacking them, but could they really be sure? Especially when it was in the heat and the chaos of a battle, and they were focused on surviving?"

"Oh." Harry blinked. He knew, from the trials as he had experienced them and from what he was reading about them now, that not every witness was trustworthy, but he hadn't thought to doubt them as much as it sounded like Hermione thought he should.

"It could just be that someone wants Andrews to go to Azkaban as a scapegoat for someone else," Hermione murmured to him. "Someone more powerful. I suspect someone in the Ministry."

Harry scowled. Politics. He _had _hoped that he would leave politics behind when he left the Aurors behind.

Then he shook his head. He was doing a miserable job of that, if it was really his goal. He had become involved in the political defense of the Malfoys in his dreams, and making friends with Malfoy in the real world—if it ever happened—was a political act that the papers would pick up on. Making friends with someone who had been a Death Eater was never _neutral_.

As the trial began, Harry did his best to pay attention. He would be facing hostility and skepticism like he saw on the jurors' faces the next time he went into the dream, although probably greater. He doubted that anyone here hated Andrews the way that most people in the dream seemed to hate the Malfoys.

* * *

"I have a name for you."

Harry smiled at Draco. He had come up to announce that to Harry the minute Harry was ushered into the room where he would speak with the Malfoys, although his parents continued to sit in chairs and turn their heads away. Harry wondered if part of the reason he liked Draco so much was that he was open and friendly and obliging. He couldn't call the Malfoy in his world that. Sure, he told the truth, but it never made sense.

"The name of someone who could vouch for your parents?" Harry asked. This time, he had made sure to bring parchment and ink with him. He fumbled for the quill in his pocket and then for the inkwell.

"Yes." Draco paused for what was probably dramatic effect until Harry looked at him expectantly. Then he said, "Wellworth."

"Is that a family, or a person?" Harry wrote down the name anyway, although he didn't think he would forget it. He was trying to remember if he had ever heard the name in the waking world. It sounded slightly familiar. During one of the law cases Hermione had insisted he study last month, maybe?

"A family. Well, a family once. It's mostly an old woman now, about Augusta Longbottom's age." Draco's fingers clasped together. "She's called Helen. I nearly forgot about her. I met her once when I was six. She was a close friend of my mother's."

"Draco, do not betray us." Narcissa's voice didn't crack, but it had so much stress and strain and tension in it that Harry wasn't sure how she managed to avoid it.

"It's not betrayal!" Draco snapped, turning around suddenly and standing up to his parents in a way that Harry hadn't thought he would ever do. "I'm saving our bloody _lives_, all right? Maybe you've given up and want to die, but I don't! I'm young! There's a world out there that I want to see and travel through and _make!_"

He was trembling, his hands shaking. Harry thought he would crush something delicate if he were to touch it, but right now, he was admirable. Harry smiled at him, and when Draco turned back and caught sight of that smile, he seemed to grow in size twice over. His eyes shone like stars, and he caught Harry's hand and clutched at it the way he had that first day. Dream. Whatever. Harry found it hard to remember that time passed more slowly here, and for the Malfoys, it had only been yesterday that he'd agreed to defend them.

"Perhaps we should reconsider, Narcissa."

Stunned, Harry turned to gape at Lucius. Draco's father was standing tall and staring at them. No, at their joined hands. In the back of his eyes was a secret smile, and his fingers rapped against thin air the way they once would have rapped against the head of his cane.

Harry didn't know exactly what that meant, any more than did Draco, who beamed with enthusiasm and started chattering away, or Narcissa, who simply sagged against the chair back, but he knew he didn't trust it.


	8. Confrontations That Do Not Go Well

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eight—Confrontations That Do Not Go Well_

Discipula met Harry as he was stopping out of the Malfoys' room.

"Mr. Evans." Her smile was perfect and apologetic. Harry looked around automatically, but didn't spot an audience. Perhaps that was simply what she did all the time, in case someone should come around the corner and see her. "Do you have a moment?"

"Yes, I do," Harry said, and fell into step beside her. He watched her face, but he didn't really expect that to tell him anything. She was too much a master of keeping her emotions concealed. Even her twisting hands couldn't really tell him anything, because she could be doing that so that she would look smaller and more helpless than she really did. Harry twitched his head in irritation. He _hated _dealing with politics for exactly this reason. He had the impression that everyone around him was smarter and knew more of the moves in the game than he did.

"Mr. Evans." Discipula had long eyelashes, and at the moment, her eyes were almost closed, cast down to the floor. "I hope that you didn't mistake me for an enemy."

"I know that you don't like the Malfoys," Harry said. "That you did nothing to give them a barrister until I appeared."

Discipula sighed. "Yes, I admit that that was not the greatest or most shining moment on my part. But you must understand that, although we should consider ourselves on opposite sides politically, I am not your enemy."

"Say that you aren't." Harry halted in the middle of the corridor, which forced her to halt, too. She looked at him with wide, earnest eyes. Harry managed to keep from snorting, but it was a near thing. "What practical difference does it make? You're still going to try to get the Malfoys executed, and I'm still going to try and stop you."

A shiver ran down his spine as he thought about that. He could tell himself all he liked that these dreams were the result of a miscast spell, that nothing which happened in them was real, but it would mean the end of existence for the Malfoys if he couldn't defend them. The memory of that made him recoil, at least a little.

_I have to do the best job I can, even if I haven't finished my training yet, because there _is _no one else._

"May I speak to you in all truth, with perfect frankness?" Discipula clasped her hands together and bowed her head slightly.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I thought you were."

Discipula sighed. "I have had more power than is good for me, since last year when Dumbledore died and I realized that someone else would have to pick up the slack. Mr. Longbottom, our Boy-Who-Lived, is a hero, but that doesn't mean he should have to do everything. He doesn't understand the political realities or opinions or inclinations of those who have lived much longer than he has. I took up the burden, as I conceived it at the time, but I've come to enjoy carrying it. That means that it's hard for me to give up, and I found myself endorsing positions that I might not if I had someone competent to help me."

"Why does Longbottom have to be the natural leader?" Harry demanded. It was true that Neville and the wizard who represented the Wizengamot had both looked incompetent next to Discipula, but they weren't her only choices, if she was serious and wanted help. "Why not look for someone older, and let Longbottom help when he reaches the age of understanding?"

Discipula smiled. "More sense than I thought to hear from you, Mr. Evans. You are not much older than Mr. Longbottom. Why would you urge me to turn to someone older, whose interests must oppose your own as they oppose his?"

_She thinks you're a citizen of this world, like her, _Harry reminded himself. _Say nothing that could make her suspect. _He shrugged. "If your description of him is accurate, then he might not be a very good leader. But we're getting away from the issue of the Malfoys. You could still oppose what the crowd wanted and not execute them if you didn't think it right. Instead, you seemed to be encouraging them."

Discipula wrung her hands again. "It is a fine balance, between maintaining the power of a leader and maintaining the freedom necessary to make my own decisions. I have gone along with the crowd at times when I didn't want to."

"If you don't stand up for issues as important as human _life_," Harry said, "then when do you stand up?"

"I managed to maintain the rule of law, if I could not maintain every nicety of it," Discipula said. "If someone besides yourself had come forwards to take on the role of barrister, then I would have permitted it. No one did." She gave Harry a searching look. "If you'll excuse me for saying so, Mr. Evans, I'm not sure what makes you so different."

"I have some courage," Harry said shortly. He knew that wasn't entirely fair, but he didn't care. His blood still churned when he thought about what had nearly happened to Draco and his family, and he didn't trust any of the excuses that Discipula was trying to make.

"I wanted to at least make it clear that I will oppose you no more than I have to, and hope for your success," Discipula said, and then stopped talking. Harry glanced up and saw her eyes fixed on his face. Her own cheeks had paled.

"What?" Harry demanded. He didn't dare reach up and touch his face, because if she hadn't seen his curse scar, he didn't want to reveal it.

"Oh," said Discipula, her natural color flooding back so quickly that Harry would have found it hard to prove she had ever lost it, "you remind me of someone I once knew, that's all. The resemblance is perfect by this dim lighting, but I didn't see it before. I wonder why not?" She seemed to be talking to herself now, turning her head from side to side and looking hard at Harry.

"You've probably met one or more of my relatives," Harry said, with a casual shrug that he hoped concealed his mixture of hope and dismay. "We are numerous and around, although officially not part of the wizarding world."

Discipula nodded. "That must be it," she said. "Well, Mr. Evans, take care to keep yourself under observation. We wouldn't want you to suffer anything when you're performing a task so important to sparing the lives of several people you think are innocent."

"Not innocent," Harry said between his teeth. This was the point that Lucius and Ron and Discipula and _all _of them had trouble understanding, he thought. He didn't believe that the Malfoys had done nothing wrong, or that Lucius didn't deserve some time in prison. But that didn't mean that he had to abandon all his principles, either. "Simply not deserving of death. I want a different punishment for them if I can't get anything else."

Discipula smiled distantly and nodded to him. "I'm afraid that you won't get that, either, though it's for reasons that it would take too long to explain to someone from outside our world." She turned and walked away, her robe swinging around her ankles with what looked like a sense of purpose.

Harry was left to stand there uneasily and wonder what she had seen in his face to make her so interested in suddenly breaking off the conversation.

* * *

He splashed his face with water that morning and stared into the mirror. No, he looked just as he always had, without the circles under his eyes that he continually expected to see because he wasn't actually _sleeping _when he had the dreams. Or it didn't feel like he was, anyway. Harry straightened back up, shook his wet hair back from his face, and then reached for the robes that he would be wearing today. Hermione was going back to the courtroom alone; she had accepted that Harry had studying to do.

And maybe her absence would enable Harry to start looking up information on the dreams. Whether they were the result of a miscast spell or not, they were starting to mean a lot to him. That made him wonder if the spell had done exactly as it was supposed to do, after all. Perhaps he would want to spend all his time asleep and gradually lose interest in the life around him? Harry could think of some of his enemies who might want revenge that insane and detailed. He would examine the books available to him and see if they talked at all about dream spells like that.

And he had a game of Quidditch to play with Malfoy today.

Harry grimaced. After last night's dinner, he wasn't really looking forward to facing Malfoy again. But he had to do what he had to do, and he shouldn't have agreed to the games if he thought that he couldn't do them. It wasn't as though Hermione and Malfoy together were irresistible forces, no matter what it might seem like.

_Why am I so opposed to the idea of giving Malfoy a chance, anyway? Why do I think that I have to not date him for everything to make sense?_

Harry shook his head at his reflection. He didn't know the answer to that one, either. He also didn't know why he allowed the association with Malfoy to continue when it was making him so uncomfortable. It wasn't as though Malfoy _needed _him in the same way that the Draco in the dream did. That Draco, and his family, really didn't have anyone to stand up for them. Malfoy had said there was no one he trusted as much to help him practice, but Harry privately labeled that a load of bollocks. He was simply the first choice that had come to mind, and it more than likely helped that Malfoy didn't have to pay him.

_He just wants me. He doesn't need me._

Harry cocked his head before he pulled on the robes and left the bathroom. He hadn't thought of the division between his two worlds in quite that way before, and somehow, it made a lot more sense when he did.

* * *

"Where's your head, Potter?"

Harry started guiltily. He was aware, somewhere in the back of his mind where he kept track of things like that, that he had missed the Snitch for a third time this afternoon. He pulled up his broom and started hunting around for it, ignoring the way that Malfoy flew close to his side. He would be furious, and Harry wasn't in the mood to deal with his fury. He had been thinking, again, about the dreams and about the way that he couldn't make the Quidditch games fit with the rest of his life.

"I know you're better than this," Malfoy sneered. He looped around in front of Harry so that he had to halt his broom or crash into him. "I _know _you. It's ridiculous to think that you can't keep your mind on the game, when I know how much you loved it and lived for it in school."

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. "Did it ever occur to you, Malfoy, that _some _of us have changed since school, and have more important things to live for?"

The air between them suddenly cooled. Malfoy leaned forwards, his arms folded in front of him and braced against the broom. Harry could see the tension in his shoulders that belied the casual pose, though. Malfoy was angry about something. Harry cocked his head and waited for the verbal slap, while his conscience burned and his common sense clucked its tongue. _I knew we couldn't get along. It takes too much out of both of us._

"My chosen career isn't important, then," Malfoy said. "That explains your forgetting the practice match yesterday. I'm sure that a single line in your dusty old books holds your attention better, because it's more _important _than this."

Harry sighed and lowered his head. It seemed that he would get dragged into arguments like this whether or not he had a real relationship with Malfoy. "Listen, Malfoy," he said. "I don't want to row with you. I forgot because I forgot, not because I think Quidditch is unimportant for everyone. It's obviously important for you. But you acted as though I hadn't changed from the boy you knew, and I have. No wonder it'll never work out," he had to add. "You want someone I haven't been for years."

Malfoy froze into a thrumming, tense stance that Harry didn't understand. Then he made a furious gesture with one hand, and Harry's broom rocked in a conjured gust of wind. He hadn't even realized Malfoy was holding his wand up.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?" he snapped, regaining control by leaning back and making his broom rise past the height where Malfoy had conjured the wind.

"I suggest that you rethink whatever you were about to say." Malfoy rose to join him, face pinched so tight that Harry was surprised he could breathe. "Of all the reasons for your opposing my resolve to date you, this is the worst yet."

"I don't understand you," Harry said. "At all. You show up and tell me out of the blue that you want to practice with me, then that you want to date me, or snog me, or—whatever is going on. You're wavering back and forth. Fine, I can understand that. But it doesn't mean that I'm compelled to just put up with your moods and never say anything."

Malfoy gave him the pinched look again. "This is strange for me, too," he said, but in a cold tone that didn't exactly encourage Harry to have any sympathy. "You would do better if you remembered that. I don't require you to _put up _with my moods. I require you to demonstrate that you take me seriously."

"How can I when you don't know what you want?" Harry shook his head. "I want my life to be calm. I want to be a barrister. I want to help the people in my dreams. I want—"

He caught his breath, seeing what he'd just revealed. A moment later, he realized that he ought to have gone on and pretended that it was nothing. Malfoy could have missed it, then, and been drawn back into the current of the argument. Instead, he stared at Harry with devouring interest and nudged his broom forwards until their knees almost touched.

"You often dream of lovers and people you need to help, is that it?" he asked. "Keep in mind that they're insubstantial, Harry. I'm the real one, the one who might be persuaded to make a go of it with you if you behave well and I decide to choose you."

Harry shook his head again. "It's not like that," he said, but he had no idea how to explain what it _was _like. Malfoy probably would think that he wasn't being paranoid enough, once he heard how deep and detailed the dreams were.

Then Harry stopped. _Why in the world am I thinking that I should tell him about them? I haven't even told Ron and Hermione yet._

"Tell me." Malfoy smiled at him, and he was close enough now for his breath to stir Harry's hair. He reached out to put a hand on the shaft of Harry's broom. "It sounds as though you're bothered by them. I could work out a solution for you, perhaps, or help you work something out." He'd probably added that because Harry's eyes flashed dangerously at the thought of Malfoy simply rearranging his life without his consent.

"You'll laugh," Harry said, casting him a wary glance. He wished he'd simply kept quiet, but Malfoy was interested now, and Harry was starting to appreciate how hard he was to shake when he was like that.

"Why would I?" Malfoy looked as if he was simple and sincere and direct, all those things that Harry had valued as his own qualities, not Slytherin ones. "This matters to you. So it ought to matter to me, too."

"But you just said—"

In the face of Malfoy's stare, Harry gave up. Yes, Malfoy had said that he was being pulled back and forth between wanting Harry and being cautious around him, and it seemed that that included the interest he took in Harry's doings.

"Fine. Let's land." Harry pulled away from Malfoy and flew down to the pitch. Malfoy followed him, and Harry could _feel _his smirk from here. He shook his head and rolled his eyes in annoyance, but touched down and got safely off the broom. Malfoy landed beside him with a speed and grace that made Harry think, again, that he didn't need any help with Quidditch, and whirled around, dropping his broom on the grass.

"What dreams?" he prompted.

Harry sighed. "For several days now, I've been having very intense and detailed dreams. They always pick up exactly where they left off, as if they pause when I wake up. The people in the dreams don't seem to notice anything wrong, so that must mean their time really _stops _and they don't see me disappearing or anything like that."

Malfoy lifted his eyebrows. "Of course they wouldn't notice anything. They're _dreams_, Potter, I told you. I'm the real thing."

Harry scowled at him. "Yes, and you're certainly annoying enough."

Malfoy preened as if Harry had given him a compliment. "And?" he prompted. "What sort of people do you meet in these dreams?"

"It's our world," Harry said, "except behind our time, still in the midst of the Death Eater trials. Neville is the Boy-Who-Lived instead of me. In fact, no one seems to recognize me, either, so I don't think I exist there. And your family is on trial for their lives, and I agreed to be their barrister because no one else would defend them."

Malfoy looked at him with such extreme surprise in his face that Harry was sure he hadn't expected that answer, or anything like that. And a moment later, Harry was sorry for announcing it so bluntly. He could have done it more gently, he thought—assuming that Malfoy would have listened. That was always the problem. Harry didn't know how to handle Malfoy because there were too many factors going into the discussions. Sometimes Malfoy wanted gentleness from him, and sometimes Malfoy acted as though nothing would irritate him more.

_He ought to be more sympathetic to me for not knowing what to do with him, _Harry thought, rubbing his forehead. _After all, look at the problems it causes him when he doesn't know what to do with me._

"I don't believe you," Malfoy whispered.

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course, this is something that I would lie about for no good reason. Really, Malfoy? Why? You ought to see that I wouldn't have a reason. Anyway, I've volunteered to be their barrister, and I'm getting opposition, especially from someone who doesn't exist in our world but is sort of like Umbridge would have been if she was smart. Hermione works for her, a different version of Hermione. And Ron works in the inn where they're boarding me, except that he's bitter against your father—I mean, Draco's father—and the whole lot of you because your father—_him_—killed Ginny with that diary when she was eleven. Everything's changed, and not for the better. They don't even seem to really know if Neville defeated Voldemort, which you would think would be the whole _point _of calling him the Boy-Who-Lived."

Malfoy swallowed several times. Harry waited, glaring at him, to see what he would say. He could imagine all sorts of uncomplimentary things, but he wasn't sure enough of Malfoy to _know _beforehand.

"How are you surviving with this whole world in your head?" Malfoy breathed. "Doesn't it get difficult, to separate the dream world and the waking? Have you spoken to anyone else about this? Granger, Mind-Healers, experts in dream magic?"

Harry blinked. That had not been a reaction that was on his mental list, either. He mentally shook his head and decided that he would have to go on as if Malfoy was a stranger. That was the only fair way to treat him, apparently: not to have expectations at all.

"I haven't told anyone else yet," he said. "You're the first one I've let it slip in front of. I did hint to Ron and Hermione that I was dreaming about a world where everything was different, but not to the extent and depth that I've been having them."

"Why not, Harry?" Malfoy moved forwards, eyes so intense on him that it was barely a shock when he rested his hand against Harry's shoulder. "You ought to see that it's dangerous to keep to yourself. What if the dreams damage you?"

"I don't think they will," Harry said. "I haven't been losing any sleep when I go through them, and the food I eat there doesn't sustain me. I drank a lot of Firewhisky with Ron in the dreams the other night, but I didn't wake up with a hangover. It's—different, Malfoy. I don't think they can leave any mark on me. They're just dreams." He shifted a bit, wondering if the warm, pressing hand would go away if he did. It stayed in place.

"You don't know that," Malfoy said. "This doesn't sound like just dreams to me. You should see an expert in dream magic. I'm amazed that you haven't already."

"I didn't know there were any such things," Harry said, his indignation rising again. "And what if they want to stop the dreams? I don't think I should, not until I know the outcome for your family—Draco's family."

Malfoy cast him a swift glance that Harry couldn't interpret until he spoke again. "You call _him_ Draco," he said in a strangled voice. "Why do you apply the name so easily to him and not to me?"

"He needs me," Harry said. This seemed to be his day for honesty with Malfoy, so he might as well go full-out with it.

Malfoy's face took on that tight look again. Then he stepped back, though his hand remained on Harry's shoulder for long moments as he did so, as if he couldn't bear to lose all contact with Harry like that. "You're mistaken," he said, "if you think that I don't."

"Not in the same way," Harry said. Perhaps it was best if he just spoke the words that were in his heart after all. He could only be expected to put up with Malfoy's constantly changing ideas and emotions for so long before he struck back. "It's a pure, concrete, immediate need. I don't know what you want me for. To date, to fuck, to snog, to rage at, to train with?"

"Why can't it be all of those things?"

And somehow Malfoy had turned the tables on him again, and his eyes were so bright that Harry turned his head uncomfortably to the side. "It's different," he muttered.

"Real people are complicated," Malfoy said. "You can't put them in neat little boxes the way that you have the dream Malfoys." His voice was calm, and Harry didn't hear any tremor in it when he named his family. "And I think that you're more afraid of what I can offer you because you'll have to second-guess and question yourself more."

"I am _not—_"

Malfoy gave him a single look of pity, then turned and picked up his broom. "Meet me here at two tomorrow," he said. "We'll speak more about this. And I won't tell Granger or any dream experts—for now."

Harry shouted at him. He flew merrily away, paying no attention. Harry swore, and kicked his broom.


	9. Character Witnesses

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Nine—Character Witnesses_

"Helen Wellworth?" Harry preserved his smile, although the woman who had opened the door of the house he'd come to was nothing like he'd expected.

She was tall, her head crowned with a feathered hat, although as far as Harry could tell, she hadn't been on her way out. She had a thin, pinched mouth, but bright blue eyes that suggested she was always on the verge of telling a joke. Her hands had long, slender white fingers, each one adorned with a silver ring. Her robes swirled around her, beautiful but a network of patches. It was hard for Harry to imagine Narcissa Malfoy being friends with a woman who seemed so—gaudy.

"Hullo," Mrs. Wellworth said, reaching out and clasping his hand as if they were old friends. Then she studied him and added frankly, "Not that I know who you are, mind, but I find that it pays to be polite to people."

Harry smiled in spite of his worry that she wouldn't remember the Malfoys or want to defend them. After all, she could have come to their defense already if she wanted to. "My name is Harry Evans," he said. "I've agreed to be the barrister for the Malfoys in their trial, since no one else seems interested in doing it."

"Ah, yes, I read about you in the paper!" Wellworth looked delighted at placing him. She stepped back and waved him into the house. "Won't you come in?"

Harry tried not to gape as he stepped inside. The hall had bronze paper on the walls and so many mirrors that Harry grew dizzy, watching himself walk through a forest of reflections. The shelves were made of wood, or at least Harry thought so until he rapped one with a shoulder in passing; they were solid bronze. Golden lamps and golden statuettes of cats and dogs in what seemed to be an Egyptian style stood everywhere.

Harry's wonder that the silent, elegant Malfoys he knew would be friends with someone like this grew, but he could hardly say that aloud, so he just followed Wellworth into the drawing room, blinking as he went and trying to decide what he would say. Perhaps this was a woman who appreciated honesty; at least, she hadn't thrown him out of the house for being honest so far. He would try that, then.

"Madam?" he asked, when they were settled into the drawing room—just as crowded with white furniture and knickknacks as the front hall had been with bronze and gold, and with mirrors—and a house-elf had brought them a tray of tea in a silver service. "I didn't know if you realized it, but I _am _trying to free the Malfoys."

Wellworth gave him an amused look and sat back, sipping tea from her cup. She smacked her lips as she did so, and her sleeve, bright blue in background with patches of red and purple, swirled around her arm. "Yes, I did think that. I saw your photograph in the paper, and you didn't seem to be someone who would give up easily, or take a case like this only for the fun of it."

Harry licked his lips and put down the cup, waving away the house-elf when it reappeared and tried to give him more milk. "I mean—Mrs. Wellworth, I want you to be a character witness for Mrs. Malfoy." The more he thought about it, the more he didn't know if he would be able to get Lucius off, or if he should try. "Are you going to agree to do that? You haven't been by their side so far."

Wellworth laughed, which wasn't the reaction Harry had expected, either. "Let me see," she said, putting her cup down in turn, and allowing the house-elf to tend to it. "It would have been young Draco who gave you my name?"

"Er, yes," Harry said, and tried to tell himself not to have any preconceptions and just to react to what was in front of him. It seemed that he had to do that more and more often since he came to the dream world.

_Not that I'll be coming here much longer, if Malfoy has his way._

Harry grimaced and shoved the thought away. He tried not to think of the real world too much when he was here. The only thing it could do was confuse and slow his reactions. These people were separate, and he would deal with them on their own ground.

"Yes, well." Wellworth smoothed her hand down her robes and watched the cloth spring back into place. "I don't think that his parents would have wanted you to come here—though perhaps they might not mind it if the alternative is to lose their lives," she added, with the pleased air of someone making a new discovery. "I visited their house a lot when Draco was young. He remembers me fondly. But then my husband died, and I started getting strange, as I'm sure Narcissa would put it. They dropped my acquaintance. I could tell you what they were like, and I could testify for them, but I don't think they would like it."

Harry snorted a little. "I'm the barrister. If I want you called as a character witness, they won't stop me from having it done. But of course, I won't make you do it if you don't like it," he added, remembering that Wellworth had no particular reason to owe anything to him.

She beamed at him. "What a nice young man you are! Some of the young ones like Draco could learn courtesy from you. But I wouldn't want to make your job harder than it has to be. The Malfoys won't like it. You have to know that."

"My job is to save their lives, if I can," Harry said shortly. "I'm not sure that I can keep them out of prison. But they've already put obstacles in the way of that, to the point where I'm listening to Draco instead of his parents now. Will you come?"

Wellworth laughed again, a big, strong laugh that seemed to go to the center of her chest. "Cleverness, sense, as well as manners! Yes, I'll come."

For the first time since this Draco had started to talk to him, Harry ended that visit to the dream world with a sense that he had really accomplished something.

* * *

"A moment, Potter?"

Once again, Malfoy had come seeking him at the office, but this time, he didn't have to fight his way up the stairs or yell outside the window; he was leaning against the doorway casually instead, and Hermione was regarding him with a certain measure of admiration.

"Thank you for that book you sent me the other day, Malfoy," she said, which at least explained why she didn't seem uncomfortable around him. "It was fascinating."

Malfoy smiled at her and nodded, but he somehow did it without taking his gaze from Harry. His eyes pinned him in place, and Harry found himself giving his head a little, irritated toss, as if he could shed the clinging weight of Malfoy's gaze that way. Malfoy's smile softened, and he came a step nearer.

"We could have our discussion here," he murmured, "but I doubt that you would want Granger interfering. Would you?"

"You're bribing her," Harry whispered back harshly. "Who told you that you could do that to my friends?"

"Bribery, what a name," Malfoy said, turning around with a mild snort and leading the way towards the door. "You've obviously spent too much time in the study of law, Potter. You're twisting things around now and losing the real meaning of words, the way that barristers have a tendency to do."

Harry pinched his nose, trying to calm the headache that had started to life behind his eyes. Hermione, he saw when he looked at her again, had stood up and was frowning at him in concern. She knew what he looked like when he was hurting. Harry gave her a quick headshake and a faint smile, and she nodded and sat back down, although she turned to Malfoy with a sterner frown this time.

"I hope that you aren't wearing Harry out with these Quidditch games," she said. "He didn't tell me that you had one today."

"Oh, you have to practice every day at something if you want to become good," Malfoy said airily. "Good enough to be professional, at least." He smiled at Harry. "In return for his time, I give Potter practice in associating with someone he can't stand, and in reading someone's actions and motivations. I think that's training that will stand him in good stead when he seriously goes into the courtroom."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself, or so it sounded to Harry's ears, at least. "I think you're right, Malfoy. Well, take him away, then." She waved a hand and turned to rebury herself in books.

Harry followed Malfoy glumly down the stairs from his office, muttering when he was sure Hermione wouldn't hear them, "That was a dirty trick."

"I have no idea what you mean," Malfoy said, turning big, innocent eyes on him. "I gave her the book because I thought she would enjoy it, and because I had no more use for it. It was a book on interpreting dreams, as it happens."

Harry jerked to a stop and glared at him. "If you told her—"

"You must think that I'm mental and stupid, at the same time, to wish to share your confidences with the whole world." Malfoy waved a hand in much the same way Hermione had. "No, I want you to have someone available to you who can help you, if I can't or if you run away from me."

Harry had been about to take another step, but he pulled his foot back and stared at Malfoy. Malfoy's smile had vanished completely this time, as if he had anticipated Harry's reaction, and he leaned towards him with wide eyes and folded arms.

"Why?" Harry asked. His throat was dry, and he had to clear it and repeat the words a bit more loudly before Malfoy acted as if he heard him.

"Because I care about you," Malfoy said. "You thought that was exaggeration? No. I don't know how things will work out. It could well end up that we can't stand each other, and we won't date. But that won't lessen the fear I feel for you, regarding these dreams. Someone else should be able to help you if I can't."

Harry shook his head, not in denial but in disbelief. "The dreams haven't done me any harm yet, Malfoy," he said. "I don't know why you're so certain that they will. And you know as well as I that we don't have a game today."

"I know," Malfoy said. "We're going to see someone I think can help us."

Harry thumped a hand against the wall. "_No _experts in dream magic, either."

"Oh, in this case, she merely provides the atmosphere," Malfoy said, starting down the stairs again as if he were absolutely certain that Harry would follow. "She won't know what's happening or why we're there. As it happens, I've taken other people there before, too. She gives me the atmosphere, and takes the money, and asks no questions."

Harry bit his tongue and followed, reluctantly. He really should have turned and gone back to the office to study his books, but two things kept him moving. The first was that Malfoy hadn't betrayed him so far, and Harry trusted him, bizarre as that was.

The second was that he couldn't help being curious about seeing a place where Malfoy had brought other boyfriends. At least, it sounded as if he had brought others there from his method of describing it.

Malfoy Side-Along Apparated him when they reached the street. Harry tried not to notice how strong the arm around his shoulders was, and then tried not to notice himself noticing.

* * *

"Lean back and relax, Mr. Potter."

The woman's voice was cool and professional, and she seemed to see nothing wrong with the way she was massaging his head with two cloths, one on other side, both of them scented with some kind of lavender water. Harry grimaced and did as she asked, if only because bursting free and trying to make Malfoy pay for humiliating him right now would be inconvenient.

The "place" Malfoy had spoken of as if it were important and mysterious and worth a lot of money to him, or even capable of curing Harry of the dreams, had turned out to be a shop run by a Muggle woman who believed in the fake kind of witchcraft that Muggles did. Crystals hung in the windows, gently tinkling when they opened the door. Harry could see suggestions of crystal balls, and statues of unicorns, and candles in a hundred and one scents, out of the corners of his eyes while Malfoy spoke with the woman.

Her name was Acacia Moonflower, or at least she said it was. Harry had tried hard not to laugh in her face. He had tried harder when she told him, in all seriousness, that soaking his hair as if he was at a hairdresser's while she massaged his temples with cloths scented with lavender and cinnamon would be relaxing for him.

Now he had lost the smile, because she had really made him sit in a chair, and really made him lean his head back, and really made him put his hair in a bowl of scented water—he would have to clean and clean himself before he went back to the house, unless he wanted Ron and Hermione to ask loads of questions about a new girlfriend—and really started the massage. A scented candle burned in front of him. Moonflower had said something about it being "the smells of a wild forest." To Harry, it just smelled moldy.

He rolled one eye to the side and found Malfoy standing there, looking grave, not at all as though he was concealing laughter, though Harry knew he _had _to be. He could see why Malfoy had brought them here; as a Muggle, this woman wouldn't know who Harry was, and wouldn't be tempted to report him to the _Prophet_. But it was ridiculous to think that he actually believed she could help, and that meant he had to have another purpose.

"Well?" Harry snapped.

Malfoy gave him a stern look. Moonflower pushed the cloths down a bit more firmly. "Really, Mr. Potter," she said. "I must insist that you relax." Then her voice became the calm, chanting drone that it had been so far, mostly via repetition of his name and meaningless syllables that she said "held great power."

Harry closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. Yes, something else had to be going on here than a sincere desire to help. He just didn't know _what_, and that made him think there was something he was missing, and that irritated the fuck out of him, and that made him wonder how much Malfoy really cared for him, or if his so-called desire had turned into the desire to torment Harry for a day.

The chant and the burning of the candle and the scrubbing with the cloths went on, but Harry didn't feel one bit more relaxed. Malfoy finally murmured something to Moonflower, and she stepped away. Harry sighed in relief and started to sit up. Maybe they could finally get out of this place and into a more useful one now.

Then he realized that Malfoy had taken Moonflower's place and was massaging Harry's head, his scalp, rather than his temples. He was using a damp cloth, though, which meant the scent was _still _going to sink into Harry's hair, and he would _still _have to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions that he had no use for.

"Malfoy, what the _fuck_?" he snapped, struggling to sit up.

"Hush, Harry." Malfoy's fingers dug deeper and seemed to find a pool of tension that Harry hadn't known existed in the middle of his hair, releasing it. Harry sagged back with a small moan of complaint and relief, not caring that his head had splashed into the water. Well, not caring right now, anyway. He was sure that he would care as soon as he could muster up some enthusiasm for caring. "I know that you don't trust a stranger to take care of you. That's why I'm doing it. I want you to have one of your dreams in a controlled setting, so that we can observe what effects it has on your body."

"You're mad," Harry breathed, but his head was sagging sideways and his breath was coming more and more softly. Astonishingly, it did seem as though he was about to go to sleep, despite the surroundings that he didn't trust and the Muggle woman watching from a few feet away.

Oh, and the person he didn't trust who was now throwing his back into massaging Harry's scalp. He couldn't forget that, either.

"Malfoy, you can't," he said, but his voice was slurred, and his eyes shut. He couldn't smell anything now but the scent of the candle and something else that might have been Malfoy's own scent, small and confident and sweaty and natural. He tried to struggle back to the surface of his mind, tried to remember what Malfoy couldn't do.

"Hush," Malfoy said again, and Harry felt the briefest, most fragile touch against his temple, something that might have been a kiss. "Hush, Harry."

Confused and worried and feeling very strange, but also more relaxed than it seemed he had been since the dreams invaded his life, Harry gave in and fell into darkness. Malfoy's fingers continued stroking and petting him all the way down.

Harry's second-to-last thought was that Malfoy had to be deeply interested in him—at least at the moment—to touch him like that without caring what a Muggle woman thought of him.

His last one was that, of course, Malfoy planned to _Obliviate _her, and that made things make sense.

* * *

"I'm glad you're back."

Harry smiled and clasped his hand down hard on Draco's. He'd returned from Wellworth a few minutes earlier, but from the moment he stepped into the Malfoys' prison, Draco hadn't been able to speak. He'd just held Harry's hand and gazed into his face with an intent mixture of curiosity and relief. Once or twice he'd opened his mouth as though he _was _going to speak, but each time he cut himself off with a shake of his head.

"Thank Merlin," he finally murmured.

Harry eyed the Malfoy parents, who were watching him and Draco out of the corner of their eyes while pretending not to, and murmured, "Are you all right? Have they been feeding you regularly? Abusing you?"

Draco's gaze went to his parents at first, but then he seemed to realize that Harry meant the people under the command of Discipula. He blushed and shook his head. "No," he said. "And we get food regularly. I don't know. It has nothing to do with that. It's just that…you feel like you're my only friend here."

He spoke that with shining eyes, and Harry was forcibly reminded that he'd never seen an expression like that on the face of the Malfoy he knew in his world. Well, why would he have? He'd never helped that Malfoy the way he was helping this Draco.

Harry squeezed his hand and then let it drop, aware, among other things, of the way that Lucius stared at them for having touched in the first place. "Well, I am here, and Mrs. Wellworth has agreed to testify. She'll edit the testimony a bit, since she knew your parents more when you were young than recently."

"If she says anything about me that she does not have the right to say," Narcissa Malfoy said remotely, "than I shall deny it."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And condemn your son to death? He wants to live, even if you don't."

Narcissa sat rigidly for a moment, her lips compressing. Lucius stepped towards her and bent over her. Harry couldn't see if he kissed her, touched her, or did something else, but when he stepped away again, Narcissa was nodding.

"Very well," she said. "For his sake, she may testify."

Harry raised an eyebrow and turned back to Draco. Draco didn't notice, though. His gaze was fixed on his parents, and the yearning in his expression would have told anyone more sensitive than they were what he really wanted.

It certainly told Harry.

_He's lonely. His parents have each other, and they're united in mind and purpose, but he doesn't have any siblings, any friends, or any partners. It's no wonder that he feels like he has to depend on me._

Harry winced at the end of that thought, though. He could support Draco through the trial, but what would happen after that? There was no way that he and Draco could stay with each other permanently. To try would be a breach between Harry's two worlds.

But then again, why not? If he continued dreaming every night, what would be the practical difference between that and his life now? He and Draco could be friends, perhaps. He could help him to see that there was a life outside of his parents, and perhaps help him find people who would accept him.

When Draco turned back towards him, Harry didn't stop his smile from becoming warm. Draco stared at him in surprise, lips slightly parted, and Harry had to cough and turn his head so that his pitying reaction to that wouldn't be obvious.

"McGonagall owled me as I was coming back from Wellworth's house," he said, and drew the letter from his pocket. "She says that she will come to the trial and testify for you, Draco, if not for your parents."

"She worked with me during the time that I was a school governor," Lucius said, swinging one hand idly back and forth. Harry thought he missed the cane Harry used to see him with in his own world. "Does she have no good word to say about me?"

Harry blinked. "I don't know," he said. "I didn't ask her, and she didn't volunteer details. Do you think she would actually say things we could use? Or would her words be more of a detriment to us than anything?" He didn't think there was any way in the world that McGonagall would lie for someone like Lucius Malfoy.

"Perhaps a detriment, yes," Lucius said. "I see that you know her reputation."

Harry chose to ignore that. Lucius and Narcissa, as well as Draco, had heard him confess that he was from another world, after all. If Lucius chose to hint around about that information, Harry didn't have to give anything more away. He turned back to Draco. "This is the strategy that I want you to adopt. I think there's someone who might be interested in covering your story in the papers, and who I can get in here to see you." He would just have to hope that Rita Skeeter was an Animagus in this world, too. "Would you talk to her if I can bring her?"

Draco stared at him with eyes gone suddenly sharp. Then he shook his head. "I think I know who you're talking about, Harry, and she's against us," he said. "She would have come in and talked to us before this if it was more fun to interview us than write about the scandal of our trial."

Harry smiled at him. "Yeah, but I wasn't part of the equation before. I think I can offer her something that would make her come. But then it depends on you." He reached out and put his hand on Draco's shoulder, since Draco looked small and shrunken, more lonely and in need of support than ever. "Would you talk to her?"

Draco bowed his head. Harry could appreciate the silent struggle he was fighting. Harry himself had tried to use the press to get the word out about something more than once, but each time, he'd had to overcome his initial repugnance about being an object of their staring curiosity in the first place.

"I'll do it," Draco said, with a nod that, Harry knew, practically sealed his fate.

"Brave man," Harry said solemnly.

Draco glanced up as if to see whether Harry was mocking him, but Harry only smiled at him, and Draco bowed his head and actually _leaned against him _with a small sigh.

Harry stood there, feeling that fragile burden resting against his heart, avoiding the stares of the two senior Malfoys, and feeling as though he would rather die than let Draco down.


	10. Bearing Burdens

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Ten—Bearing Burdens_

"When will the trial be?"

Hermione—the dream Hermione, who served Discipula, and Harry reminded himself of that so that he wouldn't be tempted to feel hurt because she wasn't behaving like a friend—looked down her nose at him. "Of course we can't know that right now." Her eyes flickered over his head to the Malfoys. Her mouth twisted, and Harry shuddered a bit. He was utterly sure that the Hermione in his world had never worn an expression of loathing like that, no matter how much she had despised Draco for calling her "Mudblood."

_No, Malfoy, _Harry thought a moment later. _I have to think of him as Malfoy, and this one as Draco. That's the only way to keep them separate, and I want to keep them separate. Mixing them up would hurt both of them, and they don't deserve to be hurt like that._

"Why not?" he asked. "The execution was imminent until I volunteered to be their barrister. I would think that Discipula would want to have the trial as soon as possible."

Hermione stared at him. "Why?"

"To embarrass me and give me less time to prepare, of course," Harry said, blinking. He would have been more cautious with that announcement in front of Discipula herself, but he didn't see a reason to pretend with Hermione. She had been careless with her own secrets, if her hatred of pure-bloods was supposed to be a secret, in front of him.

Hermione shook her head as though to clear it. "My employer is—a complicated woman," she said. "But she wouldn't deliberately take away time that you could use to prepare. You may have a week to go."

"She's giving me one, or that's a possible estimate of how much time is left?" Harry asked, deciding to pounce before Hermione could change her mind and take even this away from him.

Hermione sighed in annoyance. "I thought only I watched the nuances of words that obsessively," she muttered.

"I'm guarding three other lives," Harry said, and heard Draco, who had so far watched silently next to his parents, make an inarticulate sound. Harry glanced back and smiled at him, trying to show that he appreciated the reaction and convey reassurance at the same time. "I have to be obsessive."

Hermione abruptly leaned forwards and peered at him from so short a distance away that Harry's eyes crossed trying to keep the expression on her face distinctly in sight. She looked shocked and worried, as though Harry had done something that gave her reason to doubt Discipula, or herself. She shook her head and stepped away from him.

"You can't say that," she said. "It's not true."

Harry sighed. "Why not? Now you're going to tell me that my clients were never in danger of execution, when I'm fairly sure they were."

"Not that," Hermione said, and then turned and walked rapidly away from him. Harry rolled his eyes. He had thought Hermione was here as Discipula's official messenger, giving him (grudging) notes about when the food and clothes for the Malfoys would arrive and how far they were permitted to move outside the room (not at all), but she hadn't conveyed a lot of information beyond that.

_Maybe she wasn't meant to, _Harry thought, and turned back to face Lucius and Narcissa. There was something that he wanted to ask them before he woke up. "Are you going to let only your son fight for his life?" he asked. "Or are you going to do so, as well? I think he would fare better with you alive."

Lucius met him with what sounded like an honest question for the first time. "You're doing this for him, and not for us, aren't you?"

Harry had to nod. Draco leaned against him from the back, now, having stepped behind Harry when he turned around to face Lucius and Narcissa. "Yes. I wish—" Well, no, he didn't really wish that he could have done the same for Lucius and Narcissa, cared as much for them. Not when they were so determined to despise him for being a Muggleborn, and not when they also seemed determined to die.

Lucius hummed under his breath, which immediately made Harry cautious. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he was sure that it indicated Lucius was coming up with something he wouldn't like. "Will you be able to fight as strongly for us as you will need to, then, when you can't care for our lives?"

"I care for your lives as they affect Draco," Harry said firmly, wrapping his arm around Draco's waist. "And that's enough."

Draco leaned against him with a little sigh. Harry resisted the absurd temptation to turn and sniff his hair. Where had it come from? Not a wish that could be indulged in front of his parents, even if he had wanted to indulge it in the first place.

"I think him our best chance, Lucius." Narcissa spoke as though they had spent a long time discussing this, and Harry reckoned they might have done so, when he was gone. "The only chance." She rose to her feet and came across the room to stand with her arm through her husband's. Harry glanced quickly at Draco to see if he was looking lonely again, but he wasn't, this time.

Instead, his eyes were fixed on Harry, bright and—

_Adoring? _Harry shook his head to clear it. It couldn't be that. He and Draco had only known each other for a few days. He was only doing something that someone else should have done—that anyone else who was honest and brave would have done. Really, Neville, this world's Neville, should have been here instead of him, or a Hermione who cared about the rights of all people.

But because they weren't, this universe had called out to him and made him come here. That was probably the source of these dreams, Harry thought. There was so much wrong with this place. He couldn't imagine that Draco had been meant to die. He had to have been brought here to avert that fate.

"Very well." Lucius bowed his head. "Then I will give you the name of a witness you may call for me."

Harry sighed with relief, and Draco whooped beside him and threw an arm around his shoulders.

* * *

"That was enlightening."

The voice so close to his ear made Harry dizzy for a moment. He had to blink and bow his head back until it hit the edge of wet metal before he remembered what had happened when he was falling asleep. There had been a smelly candle, and Malfoy murmuring to him, and _stroking _his scalp, _Malfoy, _of all people—

Harry sat up fast enough to scatter drops of water from the sink a good distance across Moonflower's little sanctuary for fake magic. He didn't care. He had to get his wand, and then he had to find a curse that was sufficiently painful to make Malfoy pay for what he had done.

Malfoy caught his wrist. That was wrong. He should have been retreating in terror, Harry fumed, not standing there looking as if he did this every day! And he shouldn't have an expression like the one he wore, shocked and pleased and deep with something else all at once. Harry knew that Malfoy's feelings were confused, that his own were confused, that everyone was as confused as fuck, but he was absolutely sure that the expression on Malfoy's face had no place even in a confused universe.

"I take it I didn't disappear?" Harry asked sarcastically, because he couldn't say half the things that he wanted to in front of Moonflower, and a quick glance to the side showed him that she was still there, one hand pressed over her mouth and eyes wide as though she didn't know what to make of them. Bad enough that she was a Muggle. Harry didn't want to show off his stupid twisted relationship with Malfoy in front of anyone, Muggle or not.

"No," Malfoy said. "You remained right here, the way that you said you did." He still smiled, and his fingers had found a place on Harry's wrist he seemed interested in caressing. "But I learned something anyway."

"What's that?" Harry tried to pull away. God knew what Moonflower was thinking. Probably that they were lovers, or at least having a lovers' quarrel. Or were just mental. Harry knew he shouldn't care so much about her opinion, since he doubted that he would be seeing her again, but he had his dignity to maintain.

Malfoy held him still. "It's not like normal sleep," he said quietly. "Your eyes dart back and forth too quickly for that. And your hands move. Not as though you were touching anything, exactly. But they open and shut. And the moment the eye movements stopped, so did the hand movements."

Harry frowned uneasily. He had come to accept, in this last dream, that the universe was real, because that would mean Draco and his problems were real. It was hard to think that Draco might just be a projection of his imagination and nothing else.

"For all I know, that always happens," he said. "Or it could be a habit that I've picked up lately because these are a different kind of dream. That doesn't mean that it's a spell someone cast on me, Malfoy."

"What do you mean, for all you know?" Malfoy picked on the thing that mattered least in Harry's little speech, of course. And he _still _didn't move away. Harry was starting to suspect that Malfoy had a fetish for his wrists. "You should know what you look like when you sleep. Your lovers should have mentioned it." His voice grew harsh on the word _lovers_, a bit, but Harry knew why and ignored it. It wasn't as though Malfoy had a reason to feel jealous, and maybe he couldn't help it.

"I haven't shared a bed with anyone in years," he said. "Even when I was dating people, I generally didn't. We went back to our own flats at the end of the night."

Malfoy stared at him. "What? That's insane."

"It was the way it worked for me," Harry said.

Malfoy looked as if he wanted to pursue that, but he was smart enough not to, probably because Harry was glaring at him. He shook his head a few times and then said, "Fine. But your mates would have noticed when you shared a bedroom in Gryffindor."

Harry cast a wary glance at Moonflower, but although she looked completely fascinated, she didn't look as though she had any understanding. And he still thought Malfoy would _Obliviate _her before they left. Or else he paid her enough that she didn't care. "Not necessarily. I didn't make any noise, did I?"

"No," Malfoy admitted. His brow was pinched.

"Well, then." Harry spread his hands. "You ought to hear Ron snore; he wouldn't hear anything over that. Neville was too shy to investigate even if he did think something was wrong, and Dean and Seamus slept every night with the curtains closed."

"When you were a child, Potter," Malfoy said. He sounded as if he were approaching the end of his patience, which made no sense. Harry was more and more inclined to think that the quick eye-movements and the hand gestures were just things that happened when he was sleeping, not signs that he'd been cursed. "Someone must have noticed then."

Harry felt his face shut down. There was no way that he was going to talk to Malfoy about sleeping in a cupboard most of the time he was at the Dursleys' and then in a bedroom by himself, where the only people nearby wouldn't have cared if he screamed himself to death. "They didn't," he said shortly.

"So this is new," Malfoy said, stroking his finger with one thumb again. "And connected to these dreams."

Harry sighed and shook his head. "I don't know, Malfoy. I reckon that it's interesting for you when I do things like move my hands and dart my eyes around, but God knows why. And I don't know if this is something new, or connected to the dreams, or what. I promise I don't."

Malfoy peered at him. "I told you," he said. "I'm not sure how I feel about you from day to day, but I do know that I don't want you harmed. And I think this magic that some unknown person has cast on you could get fucking complicated."

Harry bit his lip savagely so that he wouldn't respond, and turned away. Moonflower was still there, and how should he respond to Malfoy's words? Harry couldn't prove that he wasn't concerned. All that talk back at the office about wanting to have Hermione available to Harry if he started distrusting Malfoy sounded like it. But he didn't have to stay here and have a useless argument, either.

"I wonder whether you could ever want me," Malfoy said speculatively to his back.

"Not when you act like a right berk," Harry said shortly, and jerked open the door of the dim little shop.

* * *

"Are you all right, Harry?"

Harry blinked and looked up. He'd been sitting in the drawing room with a book for ages, it seemed like, staring into the fire and not saying a word. He could understand why Hermione would be a bit concerned.

He did have to hide a smile when he saw her, though. Her lips were glistening, her cheeks red, and one side of her head had hair sticking up on end. It was perfectly obvious why she hadn't accosted him earlier.

"Ron asleep?" he asked. "Like he usually is right now?"

Hermione flushed more than she already was and swatted his knee. "You could get your own place if you wanted to," she muttered, sitting on the couch next to him. "If it bothers you so much that we're, um."

Harry laughed at her openly this time. She'd come right up to the edge of saying the word "shagging," but now that she was there, she couldn't go on. Hermione was one of the bravest and most unconventional people he knew, but bring her up to an abyss of sex and she wouldn't be able to jump over it.

"Shut it, you," she muttered. "I asked you if you were all right, and I still want to know. Since you've started this Quidditch training with Malfoy, you've acted strange."

Harry hesitated. He was still reluctant to talk to her about the dreams unless and until he had to. She would be more concerned than Malfoy, and would probably want to haul him off to one of those experts in dream magic right away. But there was something else that he wouldn't mind discussing with her.

"Malfoy kissed me," he said.

Hermione fell off the couch.

Harry laughed again, in spite of his own concerns and the dreams and Malfoy's confusing him, in spite of everything, because she looked so funny sprawled on the floor and staring up at him with parted lips. "I always thought that Ron would give me that reaction, if I ever announced that I was dating someone unsuitable," he said.

"I'm not—it's not—you just—"

Harry snickered again. Hermione usually wasn't so unable to speak, either.

Hermione took her time about dusting off her robes, and then climbed up and deliberately sat close to him on the couch. "He kissed you," she said. "Does that mean that you're dating him? Those words about Ron—"

Harry shook his head, already sorry for saying them and properly punished for the way he'd been laughing at her. Her eyes had that gleam of curiosity that said she would chase down the things he'd been talking about to the ends of the earth, if she could. That wasn't at all the response that he had hoped to elicit. "No, Hermione, no dating. But he did kiss me, and he says that he likes me, but he also feels pulled to despise me. I don't think he really started this training as a cover to be close to me, but he acts as though it helps. He wants me to focus on him, and gets angry when I don't. But he found me looking at the Death Eater trial records and thought it meant I was going to try and get his parents arrested for something else. So he doesn't trust me, whatever he says."

"Well, then the best option is to assume that he's telling the truth." Hermione spoke with authority, leaning forwards. "How do you feel about him, Harry?"

"Irritated and confused," Harry said, startled into telling the truth himself. "What else is there to feel? He behaves so confusingly that I would have to be Dumbledore to really understand him, and I don't see why I can't feel irritated."

Hermione gave him a tolerant look. "I know that. What I meant was, do you feel that you want to date him? Snog him? Do you feel attracted to him?"

"A relationship between us would never work," Harry said. "Starting with the fact that I would have to attend Ron's funeral if I ever announced that I was dating him."

"You've managed to put up with the rows that Ron and I have, the early-morning cooing, and the way that we sometimes put you in the middle of our arguments and demand that you pick sides for years now," Hermione said. "I think Ron could get used to this. Don't think about our reactions. Think about your own. Do you want to date him, Harry?"

Harry took a deep breath and scraped his fingers through his hair. He almost hoped that he would find something there he could use to disprove Hermione's theory, or distract her. What did he feel, and why was it important?

The thought came to him with blinding clarity as he sat there, such clarity that he had to grunt and turn his head away a little.

He didn't want to feel anything for Malfoy, because he wanted his emotions and concern to flow towards Draco instead.

"Harry?" Hermione saw _that_, of course, of all the things that he didn't want her to notice, leaning intently towards him and nodding a little. "What is it? You just thought of something that makes this make sense?"

"I—don't want to date him," Harry said, still trying to deal with the knowledge that had come to him. Since when he did he think about Draco that way? He had thought that he wanted to save him, protect him, not hurt him, yes, but it was a long way from that to wanting to date him. Someone in trouble with the law, someone dependent on Harry, someone who might not even exist. "I don't think so, at least."

"Well." Hermione settled back with a sigh. "Then perhaps you can't blame him for being confusing, if you're also confused."

"I'm confused because he's confusing!" Harry snapped. He was the only one in the room who knew that he really wanted to talk about Draco when he was talking about Malfoy, though, and he stood up with an irritable shrug of his shoulders. "Thanks, Hermione, but I think I'll go to bed. I can't figure out what I want do right now."

_Other than see Draco again. _He wondered if the dreams would come to him tonight when he had had one in the middle of the afternoon. And he wondered if he was becoming obsessed with them, if he should think in more detail about the possibility that someone had cursed him to stop him from paying attention to the real world.

"All right, Harry." Hermione gave him a gentle look. "You know, I do hope that you find someone for you someday, even if it's Malfoy. You've been without a permanent partner for too long, and you're someone who needs to settle down and needs a family."

"You make me sound like a _girl_, Hermione," Harry told her flatly.

"That isn't the insult you mean it to be, given who I am," Hermione said, and there was a tightness in the back of her tone that told Harry to go to bed before he did something stupid.

He nodded to his friend and shuffled away to the bathroom, where he stood brushing his teeth until his mouth stung, trying to come to terms with what he had realized.

The person he wanted wasn't real, or at least might not be. The person who wanted him, or pretended to, was real, but such a shifting mixture of emotions that Harry would have more luck trying to gain the Dursleys' forgiveness than trying to understand him.

Harry spat toothpaste into the sink and shook his head. Yes, there was nothing he could do for right now, except grow closer to Draco without hurting him and put Malfoy off, and he was better off sleeping and storing this all in the back of his head for right now.

But just as he was lying down on his pillow and getting comfortable, something knocked on the window. Harry sat up with a groan and reached for his wand, ready to hex any owl that might appear carrying a Howler or a request for an interview.

It wasn't either of those. It was a letter from Malfoy, and Harry stared at it in disbelief once he got it open, the owl settled on a perch in the corner, and the fire lit so that he could read the damn thing. The light from the _Lumos _Charm wasn't bright enough, given his eyesight.

It started with a long list of names, and ended with a paragraph that Harry should have known Malfoy would write, despite all his assurances of the afternoon.

_These are the names of all the experts in dram magic I could find who had a generally good reputation. Some of them live on the Continent, but none of them are impossible to reach. You should look over them and choose one you think you can trust. I didn't learn enough about the dreams today, so you should see someone who can really help you._

_Stay safe._

And his signature.

Harry closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his temples. Yes, in fact, he had come to a conclusion after all.

The dreams might be strange in origin, and he might be falling in love with the Draco in them when there was every chance that their love affair would be doomed, but that was better than Malfoy and his stupid interference. As Harry had told him once, those Quidditch practices, and now the way Malfoy behaved around him in other settings, was the only thing that didn't make sense in his life. Even Draco made sense in one way, was beginning to fit with his life, gave him a purpose and a sense of being needed.

Harry couldn't figure out what Malfoy would need from him, and probably it would sound like gibberish to his ears even if Malfoy tried to voice it.

_In the morning, I'll tell Malfoy that he needs to leave me alone, _he thought, and lay back down on the pillows. Smoothing his life out again and getting rid of the piece that didn't fit would be a profound relief.


	11. Decisions Lightly Made

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eleven—Decisions Lightly Made_

"What do you want?" The dream-Ron's voice wasn't exactly hostile, but he glanced at Harry from the corner of his eye and then turned away with an ostentatious air that said he had plenty of better things to do.

Harry sighed and reached for a Galleon in his pocket. Through methods that he didn't entirely understand—if Lucius could arrange for money to flow to him, Harry was surprised that he hadn't used it for bribes—he had access to Malfoy money now, and Lucius had commanded him to use it for "whatever you might need it for." Given the stare and smirk that accompanied that, Harry knew that Lucius was probably imagining much more perverted uses than Harry actually intended to put it to.

"A moment of your time," he said. "And I'll pay you." He held out the Galleon.

Ron went all stiff and prideful at once, canting his nose back so that he could look at Harry down it like he was adopting a Malfoy tradition. "What makes you think that I would accept _your _money?"

"Because it's not a bribe," Harry said. They stood in the lobby of the lodging-house for the Ministry witnesses, and anyone who walked past could have glanced over and seen them. Not that anyone was walking past. This was the quietest building Harry had ever visited. "It's just a compensation for your time."

"Compensation," Ron scoffed, but he looked a bit more interested.

"It is," Harry said. "I have to understand what made the Malfoys so different from the rest of the pure-bloods. Why did they wait until the very end of the trials to make a spectacle of them? And I could use a few tips about how to contact Rita Skeeter, too, and someone named Woburn that the Malfoys want me to contact." Lucius had given him only the name Woburn and refused anything more, just smiling slightly. Harry had the infuriating impression that this was a test of sorts, that Lucius expected him to discover Woburn's first name on his own.

Ron snorted. "Then you're paying me for the wrong thing. I can give you the directions to Skeeter's office, but you'd have a better chance trying to find Snape than Woburn."

"Is he dead?" Harry demanded. That would be like the Lucius of this world, he thought, to pretend that he was giving in and would cooperate, but then send Harry off on a hunt that would waste his time. Every time he seemed ready to do something to save his own life, it turned out to be a ruse.

Ron shook his head. "No, but his Manor's Unplottable. He's legendary, actually. The few times that he's appeared in public during my lifetime, he's already looked ancient. Some people say that he's older than Dumbledore. Some say that he's the secret head of the Wizengamot. Some people say that he never really existed at all, and he's just a glamour that bored pure-bloods use when they feel like gaining more respect than usual." Ron had a faint smile on his face, and Harry thought that he might privately enjoy the stories, or at least sympathize with someone who would disguise themselves for the purpose of causing false reactions in others. "But you won't find him."

Harry sighed and pushed the Galleon across the counter. "Fine. Do you have directions to Skeeter's office, and can you tell me something about the Malfoys?"

Ron scooped up the coin and nodded. "I'll draw you a map to find Skeeter. As for why they kept the Malfoys until last, that's easy. They'd been powerful in the Ministry. No one would have believed that they were on trial for their lives until they saw it happening. And even when the first rumors came down that they'd all been arrested, rather than simply being held overnight, most people didn't believe it. _I _didn't. Malfoy was always a ponce in school, but he was a ponce who didn't get in trouble. Why should this be different?"

Harry opened his mouth, hotly, to defend Draco, and then shut it again. Ron wouldn't understand either the reasons that Harry wanted to perform the defense or why Harry objected so strongly to that particular insult.

"Anyway," Ron went on, staring up at the ceiling, "there's not much more to tell than that. They wanted to make a show of it, to show people that the Malfoys actually were going to die and all their money and blood and status couldn't save them." He gave Harry a quick look. "Then you came along and messed it up."

Harry licked his lips. "What kind of evidence do they have against them?"

Ron laughed, a sharp sound like a seal's bark that Harry couldn't connect with the man he knew back in his waking world. "You mean, besides the bloody Dark Marks, and all those people who saw Lucius Malfoy torturing Muggleborns and fighting at You-Know-Who's side? Besides that?"

Harry felt his heart pound. The situation was worse than he had imagined. But he kept his gaze on Ron's face and nodded. "Yeah, besides that," he said. He was glad that his voice was cool and collected.

Ron studied him, eyes narrowing. Then he clapped his hands together and pointed one finger at Harry. "You're going to argue that the eyewitness testimony is unreliable," he said. "Masks, darkness, people getting hysterical, grudges against Lucius Malfoy for other reasons. Right?"

Harry blinked a bit. While this Ron wasn't the polite, happy, cheerful person he was used to, he was smart in other ways. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Because that's what other people tried to argue." Ron turned his hands over. "They let them get away with it, if their barristers were good and they paid the right bribes to the Ministry."

Harry looked at the place on the counter where he'd put the Galleon. "I know no one wanted to defend the Malfoys, but their money—"

"I don't know." Ron raised his eyebrows and smirked a bit at Harry. "That's unusual, isn't it? Here are these pure-blood Death Eaters who should have been able to walk away exactly like the others, but something stopped them from it."

Harry frowned and drummed his fingers on the counter. "You wouldn't know what that was, would you?" he asked without much hope.

Ron spread his hands out and shook his head. "If I knew, I would have volunteered as barrister to the Malfoys myself," he said. "It would make a strong, convincing argument if you could point out the differences in their treatment from the other pure-bloods' and demand to know the reason. But without proof of the reason, it probably won't help much."

Harry paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I might not need the reason after all," he muttered.

* * *

"I want you to study these books today, Harry." A stack of large tomes cascaded onto the table beside him.

Harry muttered something under his breath that he was glad Hermione didn't stay to hear. He already _had_ five books that he had to get through today, taking notes as he went. He didn't understand why Hermione thought that he could do another seven. She had faith in his powers of concentration, he knew, but the faith needed to be a little smaller.

Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. He knew the source of his irritation. He hadn't got to see Draco in his dreams last night before he woke up; the whole time in the dream world had been spent in conversation with Ron. It _had _given him ideas, and Harry was nearly as pleased with the revelation that Ron either liked him well enough to help him, or else wasn't nearly as hostile to the Malfoys as he had acted at first.

But he had wanted to see Draco.

Harry shook his head. _I'm sure that real barristers don't fall in love with their clients, _he told himself. _Hermione would have stern words to say to you about that. At least Malfoy is real._

_And annoying as fuck, _Harry decided, a few minutes later, when a familiar owl swooped through the window and landed right in the middle of his books, hooting softly and insistently as it held out its foot. Harry broke the letter free with a savage jerk that he could have made more gentle, or so said the offended glare of the owl before it hopped away from him with stiff dignity.

The letter contained the same list of experts on dream magic that Harry had received last night. It also contained a small, neat paragraph in Malfoy's handwriting. _You should choose one of them soon. Personally, I'm biased towards de Vecchio, but he's said to charge a large fee to come to Britain; you might want to choose someone closer. _

He'd signed it with his first name only this time. Harry put the letter down and pressed his fingers into his eyes until yellow stars exploded across his vision.

_I should have replied before this. He has to know that I won't be part of this crazy experiment anymore, whatever it means. And he'll just have to make his mind up to date someone else._

Harry smiled faintly as he reached for ink and parchment. In one sense, he thought, he was doing Malfoy a favor: helping him to resolve his confused feelings for Harry. He wouldn't have to waver back and forth for months between dating Harry and walking away from him; it would all be over by the time the owl returned with Harry's message.

_I don't think this can continue, _Harry scrawled across the parchment, _either the Quidditch games or your attempts to care for me and run my life. _(He'd debated between those two phrases and finally decided to use them both, so that Malfoy could see he was aware that Malfoy really cared about him but also show what these attempts felt like to _him_). _We're going in circles, and I'm resenting you when I should be grateful. I hope you find someone who _will _appreciate you and respect you the way you deserve to be, and I hope that you become so good at Quidditch that no team manager in his right mind would sack you._

Harry snorted as he blobbed his signature at the bottom of the page. They hadn't actually practiced Quidditch in several days, and when they were on the pitch, they'd spent more time talking than anything else. Malfoy had probably used the games as a cover to get close to him. Harry could cut this out of his heart without regret. If Malfoy really wanted or needed a practice partner, then he would find someone else—perhaps even someone else he could romance. His taste might run to Quidditch players.

_Does Draco's?_

Harry shook his head and watched the owl out of sight before he buried himself in his law books again. He had to free Draco and his family from their fate before he could consider what kind of person Draco might fancy. He was Draco's barrister first, his lover or boyfriend second.

_But his hero first, too._

* * *

"Why did you tell me to find someone named Woburn when you know perfectly well that he can't be found and doesn't exist?"

Lucius lifted an eyebrow and gave Harry a superior smile, saying nothing. Narcissa, who was seated between him and Draco as they ate small, hard sandwiches from a tray, narrowed her eyes and looked concerned. Draco rose to his feet and came towards Harry, keeping one anxious eye cocked backwards to his father.

"What do you mean?" he whispered when he was close enough. "There's someone named Woburn. I've met him myself."

Harry shook his head, allowing himself one swift glance into those trusting grey eyes before he looked back at Lucius. "He's a glamour or a disguise for many people," he said. "Or perhaps one person playing a long-running joke. His Manor's Unplottable, and he only shows up when he wants to show up."

"Then perhaps he will show up once he knows that I have decided to fight for my life." Lucius delicately popped a slice of apple into his mouth.

Harry buried his head in his hands. Then he picked himself up and tried again, because heroes didn't simply give up when someone opposed them, and there was no one else who would defend the Malfoys if he didn't. "Is there anything we can do that would make him appear faster?"

Lucius smiled at him. He didn't respond, but from the slight shake of her head that Narcissa gave before she could stop herself, Harry could guess the answer.

"Fine." Harry tried not to sound curt, but it was difficult. He took out the sheet of parchment that he was using lately for notes on the trial. "Do you happen to know why your trial was left until the very end? Most of the other pure-bloods have been tried already, and either executed or imprisoned or released. Why did they want to wait and see you put on such display?"

"Because they knew that we would make a better display than the rest," Lucius said, frowning at Harry as if he didn't understand the question. "Discipula has always wanted to enthrall the masses, and has always depended on spectacular shows to do it for her. Frankly, I'm only surprised that she hasn't done something else, such as initiated an argument over your right to defend us in the papers."

_Contact Skeeter. _Harry underlined that on the parchment in front of him. "But what other reason? I know that you weren't the one who did the worst shit in the war. Some of those who did already are dead." Or so he thought, relying on Ron's information. He would have to find some time to read the back issues of the _Daily Prophet _himself. "Why wait?"

"That's something I hadn't thought about," Draco said in a subdued voice. "Yes, why _did _she put it off until the end? You remember those guards were overheard talking one day a month ago, Father. They said that we were supposed to be tried near the beginning of November, but Discipula made them wait. Why?"

"The matter is resolved." Lucius dusted his hands free of bread crumbs and looked between them with a frown, as if their fascination with the question was beyond his understanding. "Because she knows that we are the proudest, the purest, and the best. Of course, in her quest to destroy and undermine the pure-blood power structure, she would do this, because she wishes her last conquest to be the hardest."

Harry restrained a sarcastic comment about how hard it was to conquer someone who was already in prison. Lucius's words had made something else occur to him. "How many of the pure-bloods are actually left? I know from Granger's words that Muggleborn and pure-blood criminals were treated differently—"

"Of course they were," Narcissa said, joining her husband in his curious peering at Harry. Draco's eyes remained grimly fastened on Harry, and, if the dawning of emotions on his face was any guide, his brain in operation.

"How much of the power structure is _left_?" Harry demanded. "Has she destroyed most of it with these trials?"

"I do not know," Lucius said. "We have had no recent news."

"No recent news that you paid attention to, you mean," Draco snapped at his father, and turned to face Harry as if he was shutting his parents out of the conversation. "I've listened," he said. "To the guards and to Discipula, when I can. They've said all sorts of different things, to taunt me, but I think some of the information that slipped through was real."

Harry drew in the sight of him, trying so hard to be powerful and self-assured, even as he had to fear for his life. "What—" His voice came out unexpectedly husky. He cleared his throat. "What have you heard? What information do you think is most likely to be real?"

"Several pure-blood families are likely to be gone altogether," Draco said. He had folded his hands in front of him as if that would mean that he was holding the truth he spoke back from him, making himself less vulnerable. "Most of the others lost at least one member. A lot of them lost their money in bribes to keep their lives or their property. That'll break a lot of the power that they had, because they won't be able to keep bribing the people who matter in the Ministry without their vaults."

"We did not earn the majority of our power by bribes to the Ministry," said Lucius stiffly. "It was our blood and our grace and our preservation of wizarding culture that won us the allegiance of others."

Draco might not have heard him, and his desperate, bitter monologue cut short the sarcastic response Harry wanted to make to Lucius. "She's cowed some of those who _might _have been charged with crimes into acting like good little citizens—doing exactly as she says. And she's won lots of property for the Ministry, because they administer it until a direct heir can be found. They probably won't look for those direct heirs with any quickness."

Harry gave Draco a warm smile and reached out to brush a strand of hair back from his forehead, before he became aware of what he was doing and pulled his hand back with a clearing of his throat. Draco stared at him with a slight rose flush coming into his cheeks, and Lucius smirked at him. "That's wonderful," Harry said. "That will help us when we plan a strategy. I think that we're going to have to go head to head with Discipula, more than the Ministry itself—"

* * *

"Potter, wake the fuck up!"

Harry's eyes snapped open, and he sat up so fast that he heard books fall to the ground. His first thought was that Hermione would make him pay for every bent page and cracked spine, and his second thought was that he should bend down and make sure that none of them had been _actually _damaged, as opposed to sounding that way.

His third and fourth thoughts was that it didn't make sense for him to have awakened with books around him instead of in his bed, and what the fuck was Malfoy doing here, anyway?

He turned and found Malfoy looming over him, his face blank with worry, his eyes dark with it. He had both his hands resting on Harry's shoulders, but pulled them back when Harry stared at him. He rubbed one hand down his chest and cleared his throat.

"You were asleep here," he said. "I came in response to your ridiculous letter. And you were asleep."

"You said that already," Harry said, using the most scalding tone he could, while he bent down to gather up the books. He hadn't expected—he really hadn't—Malfoy to follow this up. Why should he? Either he was proud enough that Harry's dismissal would make him recoil in indignation, or he would understand that Harry wasn't going to fulfill his genuine need and hire someone else.

"I couldn't wake you up," Malfoy said. "I called your name, shook you, and called your name in your ear. It was only when I combined the shaking with the yelling that I got a response, and even then, your hands and your eyes didn't stop moving for several seconds." He loomed closer, so that, when Harry stood back up with his arms full of books, he couldn't move anywhere. "You idiot. You were having one of those dreams again, weren't you?"

Harry turned his head away to avoid answering and to avoid comparing Malfoy with how Draco had looked in his dream—Malfoy's cheeks were flushed, too, but it was a more vivid red, as everything about him seemed to be harder and brighter—and put his armful of books on the table. "Think what you want, Malfoy. I told you that we were done, and that means you don't have to be concerned about me anymore."

"Fuck you," Malfoy said, raggedly, sounding hurt and angry at the same time. "You might not care about these dreams and the way they affect your health, but I sure as fuck do, whether you date me or not."

Harry moved his shoulders back and forth. He could shrug off a touch on his skin, he thought; why couldn't he shrug off emotions in the same way? "You don't understand, Malfoy," he said. "I fell asleep in the middle of the day. So what? I've been doing a lot of studying lately, and that's not unusual."

"In the middle of the day when you had a full night's sleep the night before, or probably did?" Malfoy asked grimly. "When you took a nap in the middle of the afternoon a day ago? Yes, it is."

"So you've never wanted to rest your eyes, and fallen asleep accidentally?" Harry glared at him again.

"This wasn't an accident." Malfoy's voice had gone deep and soft, but Harry knew better than to think that meant no danger. His hands were flexing open, and his eyes were so steadily fixed that Harry didn't think he had blinked yet. "The dreams are taking over. I shouldn't have been able to put you to sleep so easily, but I did. Do you remember what you were doing when you fell asleep?"

"Reading," Harry said. "Wanting to rest my eyes."

"You're lying about that last," Malfoy said. "I bet that you fell asleep in the middle of reading, and that you don't remember exactly what you were doing, because it happened so suddenly that you had no chance to resist."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You make it sound as though these dreams are—are animals stalking me or something."

"There are dream curses that behave exactly like that," Malfoy said. "I've been studying them in the last few days."

"Even after I made it clear that I didn't want to see a dream magic expert, and even after I sent you the letter implying that you should find someone else to train with you for your bloody Quidditch games?" Harry demanded.

"Yes," Malfoy said peacefully. "You don't know what would be best for you, that's clear. And you have no idea what I want."

"Someone to train with you," Harry said. "Someone to date. You don't _need _to find either of those things in me."

Malfoy gave him a charming smile. "But I want to. Or might want to, on the second one."

Harry gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Did I tell you, Malfoy, that the version of you in my dreams actually _needs _me? He doesn't make all these confusing demands and change his mind five times a second. I want to help people who _need _me, not someone who just might want me, or might want me tomorrow." He started to push past Malfoy. It looked, from the slant of the light, like late afternoon, and he should take his books and go home.

Malfoy grabbed his hand again. They were locked face-to-face, their breaths puffing against each other's lips. Harry was dismayed to feel a shudder of excitement run down his spine. His body got excited at the most _inappropriate _times.

"Listen to yourself sometime," Malfoy whispered. "You're changing into the hero caricature that the papers like to make you into. I'm going to prevent that from happening, because I want to. I don't need any better reason. Unlike you," he added, in a voice of withering contempt, and dropped Harry's hand.

"What does it say about _you_, that you're chasing someone who doesn't want anything to do with you?" Harry asked his back.

Malfoy walked out of the office with a magnificent swagger that reminded Harry of dream-Lucius. He swiped his hand out in frustration, and then swore as he knocked a new lot of books to the floor.

_Today is not my day._


	12. Decisions Not Lightly Made

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twelve—Decisions Not Lightly Made_

"Because she's the one who seems to be causing all the trouble," Harry said, glad that the dream had apparently returned him to the middle of the sentence he was uttering to Draco when he'd vanished last time. For a moment, he remembered Malfoy and his concern when he couldn't wake Harry up, but he gave a little shudder and the memory vanished. He didn't _want _to think about Malfoy here. Malfoy thought he needed help, instead of being able to give it. Nothing could be further from the truth.

"Yes," Draco said, frowning a little. "Discipula's the one who arranged for most of the evidence collection, and the witnesses at other trials, and she seems to have a grudge against the pure-bloods. But that makes no sense, really. She's pure-blood herself."

"Is she?" Harry asked, blinking. He didn't remember hearing about a family named Mondragaron in his own world, but then again, he'd never paid as much attention to politics as he probably should have. And things might easily be different here, he reminded himself again. "Has anyone confirmed that?"

Draco laughed in the back of his throat. "Her family's old, and she's most definitely her father's daughter," he assured Harry. "Besides, she was in Slytherin, during a time when the prejudice against Muggleborns was so strong and intense that most Muggleborn children weren't even Sorted there by the Hat. I don't know why she hates the rest of us, but I do know that she understands and knows how to manipulate the culture."

Harry nodded, thinking. "Then we need to know how to understand and manipulate her. Is there anyone who's her close friend?"

Draco shook his head. "Even when we were free and she was just starting to become a force in Ministry politics, I never heard of anyone like that. I think she kept all possible friends at a distance deliberately, so that they couldn't potentially harm her Ministry ambitions. The only person who seems to attend on her at all times is that Mudblood bitch Granger."

Even knowing what made him say it, and the way that Hermione felt about pure-bloods in return, couldn't keep Harry from flinching. And, to his credit, Draco was sorry for it a moment later, putting a hand on Harry's arm and looking anxiously at him. "I apologize," he muttered. "It's just—you're the only Muggleborn I've met in years who's showed kindness and sympathy to us. After a while, it's just easier to _expect _cruelty out of someone with your heritage."

Harry restrained himself from saying that Muggleborns probably felt the same thing about pure-bloods, and nodded. He wasn't part of the politics of this world, he reminded himself. If anyone should be able to be an impartial observer, it was him. "All right. I'll seek out Granger, then." _And hope like fuck that she actually talks to me. _"And Skeeter. You—stay here and try to keep your spirits up, all right?"

Draco snickered. "I really only have a choice about the second part of that."

Harry gently caught his chin and tilted his head up so that they could meet eye-to-eye. "But you'll do it anyway?"

Draco blinked for a moment, and then said, "If you want me to. I don't really have any reason to do it for _them_." He flicked his head at his parents, and then closed his hand down around Harry's hard enough to bruise his fingers.

Harry closed his eyes to keep from betraying what he really felt, and then nodded. "Do it for yourself, too. You deserve more attention and credit from yourself than you get, Draco."

When he left the cell that time, it was with Draco's soft gaze on his back, and Lucius Malfoy's smirk haunting him.

* * *

"Potter."

"Goddamn it, Malfoy," Harry snarled, turning around. They were in the middle of a new shop that had opened in Diagon Alley, selling more specialized books, which was trying to compete with Flourish and Blott's, which sold mostly textbooks and general interest reading. The witch who owned it and gave the shop its name, Nibb's, scurried over at once, looking somewhere between gratified and scandalized that Harry Potter was having an argument in the middle of her shop.

"Please do try to keep the noise down, gentlemen," she said, glancing between them and holding up a finger.

"What noise?" Malfoy gave her a smile that made her smile back as if in helpless adoration of him. _Great, he can date her, _Harry thought mutinously. "I was only saying Potter's name. It was his decision to shout at me." He pouted at Harry and gave him the sort of smoldering look that might have convinced anyone they were long-established lovers.

Harry gritted his teeth. He hated the way that Malfoy could manipulate the people around him to make Harry look like nothing less than a sodding _prat. _But he had made his decision. He was out of the git's life. He would just have to find someone else to torment.

He turned around and picked up the book he'd been looking at, one on strictures of magical theory that applied to alternate universes, and nodded to Nibbs. "How much for this one, madam?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but Malfoy put his hand on Harry's wrist. It was unusually heavy and warm, and Harry was instantly convinced he'd cast some charm on his skin that would make it feel that way. "Let me pay for that one, Harry," Malfoy murmured into his ear. "As well as the one that you _meant _to buy." The corner of another book nudged the nape of Harry's neck, and, reluctantly, he turned to look.

_Everything You Need To Know About Dream Magic!_ chattered the title, which wound around the book's spine in bright golden letters. Harry was surprised, and also suspicious. It looked more like the kind of book that Flourish and Blott's would sell, and he wondered if Malfoy had smuggled it from there.

"No," Harry said. "I'm going to pay for my own bloody book." He dug into his pocket for the Galleons that he'd put there this morning—and couldn't find them. He knew he hadn't put them elsewhere, he knew he'd heard them jingling when he entered the shop, but right now, they weren't there.

His skin crawled. He knew that he could get Nibbs to hold the book for him while he ran back to the bank for some money, but it was too much like having people do him favors because he was the _Famous Harry Potter _for his taste.

He smiled sheepishly at Nibbs, who looked properly forbidding. "Er. I seem to have lost my money, madam. Could you keep the book for me? Just a few minutes? I'll be back as soon as I can access my vault again—"

"No need," Malfoy said, with another one of those dazzling smiles—or so Harry thought; he couldn't see it properly since Malfoy was behind him—and reached across Harry's shoulder. Coins gleamed and clinked, and Nibbs squeaked and stared at the wealth in her hands as though she didn't know how it had come there.

"Oh, but, Mr. Malfoy, this is too much for the one book." She picked up two of the Galleons and tried to hand them back.

"Nonsense," said Malfoy, who, Harry thought, had _also _adopted that deep voice just to charm uncertain, fluttering women. "It's just right for the price of them both, and I assure you that Mr. Potter does _indeed _need this book on dream magic, even if he doesn't know it yet." His hand came firmly under Harry's elbow, and he steered him towards the door of the shop, ducking his head smoothly when Harry tried to push him off and dodging back when Harry tried to elbow him in the ribs.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy, if you're sure," Nibbs said after them. "Thank you for being such good customers!" She practically had to shout that part as the door swung shut behind them.

Harry waited until the door _had _closed and he was relatively sure that Nibbs was looking elsewhere to wrench away from Malfoy. There was no point in causing her a heart attack, he thought. "Bloody fucking nice, Malfoy," he snarled under his breath. "Hovering over me—she'll probably think that you're thinking of bloody _adopting _me or something."

Malfoy just gave him a bland look. "You have very strange assumptions about the wizarding world, Potter. Even here, people can tell what it means when someone hovers over someone of the same age like that." He leaned closer and whispered loudly, "Think carefully. It isn't adoption."

Harry's face flamed, and he flung the dream magic book at Malfoy, who caught it easily. There were way too many people around, he thought, all of them slowly orienting on him as they realized who he was. He did not _need _this. "Sod off, Malfoy," he said through clenched teeth, and started walking again.

"You need someone to care about you," Malfoy said, sauntering along behind him. Harry _knew _that he was shaking his head sadly at the people who watched them, conveying without words the necessity for someone to stand up to their temperamental Savior. That only made Harry angrier. "Since, as I told you, you're incapable of watching out for your own health."

"You have your own issues with understanding words," Harry snarled over his shoulder, "since you can't understand a simple invitation to leave when it's issued."

"Oh, I would leave if I had a pressing engagement elsewhere, or if you could convince me the dreams weren't dangerous," Malfoy said, coming up beside Harry and lowering his voice. _He probably doesn't want anyone else hearing about the dreams because that's _his _secret to torment me with, _Harry thought, mentally seething. "But you can't convince me of that, so I think I'll stay right where I am for the present." He gave Harry another bland smile and tapped the corner of his folded arm with the dream magic book. "This belongs to you, by the way."

"It's yours," Harry snapped, shoving back. "You paid for it."

Malfoy gave a quiet laugh, his eyes brightening. "Then I reckon that all the things I pay for belong to me? Is that what this means?"

"Yes," Harry said, and then realized that one could argue that Malfoy had paid for _him_, too. "No!"

"So indecisive," Malfoy murmured. "It's no wonder that you haven't had a permanent relationship in months. Your horizon is probably thronged with choices, and you look around with a gaping mouth and can't pick one. That would explain why you've fallen in love with someone who only exists in your head."

"Not fallen in love," Harry said, lowering his voice, too. He could just imagine what kind of rumors would appear in the papers next if Skeeter or someone else overheard him. "It's just that—he needs me, all right? I can do something for him."

"I notice that you didn't dispute the 'only exists in your head' part."

Harry swung around to face Malfoy again. Malfoy gave the passersby a polite smile and pulled Harry out of the way of a woman struggling with a child and a Crup, both on leashes. Harry tried to give her an apologetic smile and Malfoy a fierce scowl at once; the woman glanced at him nervously and hurried on.

"I don't know how much more plainly I can put this," Harry said when she was gone, leaning forwards so that he could speak directly into Malfoy's face. From this close, those cool grey eyes were more smug than he would have thought possible. "I'll use small words. _Fuck. Off._"

"No," Malfoy said. "Would you leave someone alone who was dangling off a cliff and only hanging on with one hand? No. Neither would I. I like to be needed. I like that it's you who needs me." He made that outrageous statement with the same calm face that he would probably use to tell someone the time or the weather.

"Are you _mental_?" Harry demanded. "I'm not hanging off any bloody cliff—honestly, Malfoy, you and your stupid metaphors—and I didn't _ask _for your help."

"I know that," Malfoy said, and he frowned for the first time, his eyes staring past Harry as if he was looking at something that had no name. "And sometimes, I wonder why I offered my help in the first place."

Harry eagerly seized that excuse. "Yes, exactly! You should have someone who appreciates you. Someone who can train with you, and offer help to you and accept your help, and treat you kindly. I can't." He smiled at Malfoy, hoping that it would help him make his decision if Harry used gentle language. "You _deserve _all that. You deserve someone who doesn't push you away and forsake you for a dream. I've treated you horribly. Can you actually forgive that?"

Malfoy sneered at him. Harry held his breath, expecting the rejection that would occur in the next moment.

And if he felt bad about it in the back of his head—well, he didn't like to fail anyone, and it made sense that he would feel worse about it with Malfoy than usual, since he was one variation of Draco and Harry could wish him as happy with someone as he thought it possible he could be with Draco.

_If he was real._

Harry half-shook his head, hoping that Malfoy hadn't used Legilimency on him to plant himself in Harry's mind and voice suggestions that Harry would be more inclined to listen to because he would think they came from himself.

"It's all or nothing with you," Malfoy said. "Complete forgiveness or complete disdain. As it happens, yes, I don't like the way you've treated me, and if it was a case of training only, if I didn't have other interests in you, then I would walk away and let you dangle. But you were one of the people who taught me better. Now I can't turn my back on someone in trouble who matters to me, even if they're not as invested in me as I am in them." He was meeting Harry's eyes directly now, and Harry thought he'd liked it better when Malfoy stared aside.

"That's not what I meant," Harry said. "I meant what I wrote, that I can't help you now, and you should find someone who could."

"I know what you wrote." Malfoy's gaze and voice were both steady. "I just don't choose to pay attention to it."

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He would have walked away in turn and left Malfoy to take his chances, but there was still the fact that Malfoy might go to Hermione. And then Harry would never be able to return to the dreams in peace. She would hound him and make him agree to take Dreamless Sleep or see this expert in dream magic that Malfoy kept pushing at him. She had a lot more influence over him than Malfoy did. Harry needed a solution that would actually end the problem.

"Look," he said at last. "If I could prove to you that the dreams weren't dangerous, would you leave me alone?"

A dangerous smile curved Malfoy's lips. Harry didn't know why. He had meant what he said, about all of it, and Malfoy shouldn't look like a cat someone had held a defenseless bird out to.

"If you could prove that," Malfoy said. "You can't prove that."

"How do you know?" Harry leaned forwards belligerently, then saw Malfoy's eyes focus on his lips and started back again. He had to remember that Malfoy was still uncertain about a relationship with him, he reminded himself. That was his greatest defense. He shouldn't make Malfoy think too much about whether he wanted Harry or not. "If I go to this expert in dream magic that you proposed I see, he could tell me something entirely different."

"He might, yes," said Malfoy, while his lips widened in an even more dangerous smirk for some reason. "But you _do _have to remember, Harry, that he might decide on my point-of-view. What would you do, if he did that?"

Harry shook his head stubbornly. "I have to remain there, or go on visiting there, at least until Draco doesn't need me anymore."

For some reason, Malfoy lost his smirk and looked wounded at that. But he had covered it up so fast and gone back to a normal expression in the next instant, so Harry thought he might just have intended it as manipulation. "So it seems that I'm to have nothing either way, no matter who's right."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I know they're not dangerous, git, or I wouldn't have volunteered to try and prove they weren't."

Malfoy burst out laughing. A few people passing through Diagon Alley turned around to stare, but he didn't take any notice of them, and in fact rubbed tears from his cheeks while he watched Harry in amusement. "Ah, Harry. I fear that you would never make a good Potions master if you weren't willing to change your mind in the face of new evidence."

"I don't want to be a Potions master," Harry said. "I want to be a barrister. A good one. One who helps _all _the people in need."

"Are the people in want not ones you feel any compassion for?" Malfoy murmured, drawing closer.

"You can do something to help yourself," Harry retorted. "You have your freedom, and your family's freedom. Draco has nothing and no one to help him but me. How can I abandon him like that?"

Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, then looked thoughtful and shut it again. "All right," he said at last. "Do you trust me to make the appointment with a theorist I think trustworthy, and to make it for a time and place you'll be able to easily reach? Unless you're asleep when I call for you," he added with mild sarcasm.

Harry nodded. He was going to go through with this in good faith. It didn't bother _him_. Malfoy was the one who would be severely embarrassed when it turned out that there was nothing threatening in the dreams. Harry hoped that the dream magic expert was someone like Dumbledore, with a long silver beard, so that he could stroke it and stare at Malfoy sadly for making such a stupid mistake.

"See you in a day, then," Malfoy said, and nodded, and walked away down Diagon Alley before Harry could make any of the several cutting remarks that had sprung to mind when he heard those words.

* * *

"You want to know what."

Harry winced. Dream-Hermione was far more cutting than the Hermione he knew. She kept her head bowed over the papers she was working on, despite Harry having cleared his throat several times in an attempt to get her attention, and she didn't make her question a question, even though it should have been.

"Um." Harry scratched the back of his head. He could hardly ask her outright to betray Discipula or any important secrets. He had to go for a more discreet route, but he didn't know what it could be. He wished fiercely, not for the first time, that Draco and his family weren't so disdainful of Muggleborns, so that they could have got to know her better and given Harry some advice.

But then Harry thought about Draco's outburst, and Hermione's earlier one, and snorted to himself. She had already handed him the secret to manipulating her, if he was bold enough to use it.

"I want to know why you're not more outraged over Discipula and the way she handled the trials," he said, leaning forwards with his hands on her desk and speaking softly. "Since, by all accounts, she was the one who arranged them for the Ministry. If the Muggleborn Death Eaters died first, without much of a trial, whose fault was that?"

Her head jerked up so fast that she nearly hit him in the jaw with her skull. She stared at him with her mouth twitching, and then she turned and looked aside, one hand clenching on her knee. Harry stepped back and waited. He had thought of saying something, but he doubted that that would be productive.

"You have no idea what it's like," Hermione said mechanically a moment later. "I'm doing what I must to survive, and I'm probably not going to be allowed to rise much higher, because I already have too much power for some people."

"I'm not asking you to take any risks," Harry said. "I'm asking you to do something that might make everything better for everyone in the long run."

"No risks, he says." Hermione flung him a searing glance. "I know that you've spent most of your life outside the wizarding world, but do _try _not to act stupid, would you? It would help me _so _much."

Harry fell silent again, biting his lip. He thought Hermione was making her decision, and he would be stupid if he interfered with that. He watched her combing her fingers through her hair in an unconscious gesture that Hermione-at-home would never have used. But then, Hermione-at-home was self-conscious about her hair. This Hermione seemed too taken up with the issues of blood politics to have time left to worry about anything else.

Hermione sat there with her eyes closed, meditating with tiny little puffs of breath, for a while. Then she turned around and faced Harry with a hard stare. "You _do _realize that I still hate the pure-bloods you're helping?"

"Why did Discipula wait until the last to execute them?" Harry asked softly. "Why make such a big deal of it, when other people who did more were permitted barristers? That's all I'm asking. That's the only thing I want to know."

"You want to know more than that, or so you said at the beginning." Hermione's fingers wound together as she stared at him.

Harry mentally cursed both her memory and his tendency to blurt things out before he thought them all the way through. "Yes, fine. I'd like to know what the difference was between the Muggleborn and pure-blood Death Eaters, and how Discipula got so much power in the first place, and why she would take you on and yet execute people like us…I don't understand. What side is she on? What are her sympathies?"

Hermione reeled a bit, actually catching hold of the desk to maintain her balance. Harry stared at her, wondering what he'd done.

"That's what I've wondered," Hermione whispered. "Sometimes I think that she hired me because I really was the smartest assistant she could find, but the way she looks at me sometimes—and the way she ignored me when I told her that she had to be fair to the Muggleborns as well—I don't know. I don't _know_."

Harry reached out and squeezed her hand, deciding that he could take that much of a liberty. Then he slipped away, congratulating himself. He had tapped into one of the secret things Hermione had always wanted to do, then, and that meant he didn't have to worry as much about her tendency to obey the rules catching up with and stifling her curiosity, the way it sometimes had in Hogwarts.

He hesitated outside Hermione's office in the Ministry, wondering if he should try to contact Skeeter or go back to Draco, the way he wanted to.

"Mr. Evans?"

Harry started and turned around. There stood Discipula, and she led an older woman by the arm. The woman's eyes widened when she saw Harry, though a single glance had already told Harry that she wasn't someone he knew in either world. She had blue eyes and auburn hair, and looked a little like Mrs. Weasley, but she was much older.

"Excuse me for taking up your valuable time," Discipula said. "But this is someone I thought you should meet. She might be a distant relative of your family. Her name is Nora Potter."


	13. In and Out of Dreams

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirteen—In and Out of Dreams_

"Nora—Potter," Harry said, and he knew that his eyes were too wide and his voice too slow, especially for someone who had come here under the last name of Evans.

"Yes," said Discipula, and then stepped back and watched him with a keen, cruel eye. Harry didn't dare glare at her, but he wanted to.

Not as much as he wanted to look at the woman in front of him and absorb her features, though. There _was _that.

The woman had a more bony face than he had thought at first, and wider eyes. She approached him now with one hand out. It shook. Harry clasped it and managed a smile down at her. He didn't dare speak yet, until he could get rid of a huskiness that wasn't supposed to be in his voice.

"You look so much like their son would have," Nora whispered. "You have James's face and her eyes. Lily Potter's eyes, I mean," she finished, with a self-conscious laugh. "I dreamed of a son like you once. I wish I could have had him."

"I don't quite understand, madam." Harry was glad that he had his voice back under control. He would have _liked _to be able to speak openly to her, to hear about who his parents had been here, to confess his fascination, but he had to remember that he wasn't in the dreams to do that. He was here to help Draco. It was his need that Harry had to keep at the forefront of his mind—as well as other people's like Ron's and Hermione's, if he could do something for them. "You think I look like the son of—of dead people?"

"Yes." Nora's hand tightened on his arm to the point where it hurt, but Harry didn't want to move or look away. "James, my great-nephew. I'm his grandfather's sister, you see. I knew him well when he was a little boy, and I saw him once after his marriage. I'll never forget his wife's eyes. That intense green color." She sighed softly, longingly. "I hugged her and thought about what pretty babies she would have. And then, of course, she was pregnant when You-Know-Who m-murdered them. That might have been your brother, your cousin."

Harry had to shake his head. He had to smile. He had to do all those things to prevent Discipula, who stood not far from them and stared at them, from suspecting. "But you don't really believe that I'm related to your great-nephew, do you, Miss Potter? After all, you're pure-blood, and I come from a family of Muggleborns."

He had hoped that revelation would make her jump back and flinch, but he should have remembered that the Potters had to be more tolerant of Muggleborns in the first place, to fight Voldemort. Nora lifted solemn eyes to his face. "It can't be a literal relation to my family, of course," she said, after another stare. "I know the Potter genealogy very well, and there are no lost cousins or abandoned children, or even people who went missing in mysterious circumstances. We've always been a small family," she added, with a mixture of regret and pride. "But I wonder—your last name is Evans. Could you be related to poor Lily? Her last name was Evans, too, though I don't think anyone but me remembers that anymore."

Discipula's smirk was visible even though Harry wasn't looking at her.

_Shit._ Harry would have to dance very fast, and he still wasn't very good at that. Hermione had told him that she worried about what would happen when he had to go into courtrooms in the future, and improvise arguments before a tricky and judgmental audience. To tell the truth, so did Harry.

But right now, Draco's life rode on his shoulders, and he didn't have the time to go away and collect himself. He would just have to do the best he could with the weapons already in his head and hands.

"I reckon it's possible," Harry said, and gave Nora his most charming smile. "My family is large, and we've given ourselves several names, and it's possible that we could have lost track of one branch. Not everyone knows their genealogy so well as you do, Madam Potter."

Nora blushed in pleasure, and then sighed and held onto his arm more tightly. "Could I talk with you?" she asked. "The rest of my family is dead. I've never had any children myself. Talking to you would be like talking to that great-great-nephew that I never got to meet. And if you really are related to Lily somehow, then it's a double connection to her."

How in the world could Harry refuse? And yet, he hardly liked to make a promise like that in front of Discipula, or when the Malfoys still needed him.

"There's just one problem with that, madam," he said. "I'm in the middle of a case. I'm a barrister, and I have a time limit." He did turn and look at Discipula this time, and didn't bother hiding the contempt in his eyes. If she was determined to keep him from rescuing the Malfoys, then she probably knew they were enemies already.

Discipula just looked back at him as if she didn't understand. Harry snorted in disgust. More like she was determined not to understand, or just thought that she was so innocent no one could possibly resent her.

"Oh, of course," said Nora, and smiled mistily at him. "I wouldn't dream of taking you away from the case. But after it? If you could come to my house—my Floo connection would always be open to you—and speak with me?"

Harry swallowed. A reason to stay in the dreams. He wondered what Malfoy would say to that, and then discarded the thought impatiently. Why did he care about what the git would say? The important thing was that he had a reason to stay here even after Draco and his parents were rescued. He could be with Draco and seek out a representative of his family at the same time. They _were _related, in a strange way, even if Harry would never be able to reveal that to Nora.

"I'd like that, madam," he said quietly.

Nora smiled at him and let go of his arm reluctantly. "Oh, excellent! Here's my Floo address." She drew out a small and scribbled-on piece of parchment, and handed it over. "I'm grateful to Madam Discipula for introducing us." She nodded to him and walked off down the corridor, much stronger than she had been, apparently, lifted and filled with a radiant shine because Harry had given her that much.

Harry felt a sharp tug at his heart. How could he want the dreams to end when there were people here who needed him as much?

He turned to Discipula, who continued to smile, and shook his head. "I don't know what you're playing at," he whispered. "But you ought to know that I won't stop being your enemy just because you tempt me."

"Is there something tempting here, Mr. Evans?" Discipula's eyes were huge and guileless. "How surprising. A coincidental resemblance to a dead woman who wasn't even a blood relation of Madam Potter's shouldn't be that much of a temptation."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Why did you bring her here?"

"I believe that I explained the origin of my nickname to you?" Discipula bowed her head a little. "I call myself a student because I am always, and continually, learning. I just learned something new. I always value that."

"What?" Harry snarled at her.

"Oh, but you took a lesson from our encounter as well, doubtless, and I wouldn't want to violate the purity of what you might have learned by explaining my perspective." Discipula gave him a little curtsey and then turned away.

Harry buried his head in his hands and did his best not to curse. Then he stood back up, shaking his head.

Intriguing as Nora Potter was, his first responsibility remained the people who needed him.

* * *

"Harry, are you all right? You've been looking tired lately."

Harry smiled at Hermione and privately cursed her observation skills. Just once, he would like things to go right for him, and that included Hermione not noticing that something unusual had happened on the morning after Harry woke up from the dream involving Nora Potter.

"Those dreams I've told you about," he said, which was at least close enough to the truth not to make Hermione think that he was lying immediately. "They've returned, and they're so intense and vivid that waking up from them disorients me at first."

Hermione put down the book she'd just started picking up. "They're _still ongoing_?'

_Oh, fuck. _Harry winced. He hadn't meant to get her attention in quite _that _way. "Er," he said. "Yes. It's not like I'm exactly in control of my dreams and can have whichever ones I want," he added defensively. It did sound a lot like Hermione was getting upset because the dreams kept happening. Harry knew he could have told her and Ron more about them earlier, and he could have taken Malfoy's concerns more seriously, and he could have done lots of things, but just having those dreams was not something he could influence.

_Don't you want to influence it? Don't you want to find out more about the origin of those dreams, and stop them?_

The voice sounded like Malfoy's, which gave Harry free license to ignore it. He folded his arms and tried to look as lofty and convincing as he could, while Hermione stood up and came closer, wand out.

"There are charms I can cast to find out whether you're being mentally influenced from a distance, Harry," she said. "Will you let me cast them?"

Harry hesitated before he nodded. He didn't want the dreams to go away, and he didn't want to give up trying to help Draco, or, now, learn more about his family, and he didn't want Hermione to get upset.

Then again, if she found something because of this spell, then that probably meant that the dreams had never been real in the first place.

Which meant Draco wasn't real, and Nora wasn't real, and all his combat against Discipula and his attempts to help the Malfoys were just delusions that came from his subconscious interacting with a spell.

Hermione murmured something under her breath that Harry didn't bother paying attention to. He didn't care about the particular spells she used. He was trying to deal with the idea that what he'd come to accept as a completely separate alternate reality, one that he could escape into and one where he was much more needed than he was here, might be nothing more than a series of images his mind had conjured up.

_Which Malfoy tried to tell you from the beginning, but you didn't want to listen to him._

Harry scowled and scratched behind one ear, hoping that would be enough to send the irritating thoughts scattering. He had never asked for Malfoy's company, or his "help," or for his voice to be transported into Harry's head. He would be glad when he finally managed to annoy Malfoy enough that he left Harry alone. Harry found him so confusing that he wasn't sure how to react, in the first place, and second, it seemed that Harry couldn't really help him at all. Nothing had been said about Quidditch games in days.

"Hm," Hermione said a moment later, and her disappointed expression told Harry what she had felt before she said anything. His heart leaped up, and he gave her a smile that made her roll her eyes. "It's true that you have no charms like that on you. I tried looking for a few others that I know can cause intense dreams as a side-effect, like a love charm, and there's nothing there, either. I reckon it's just—unusual dreams." She hesitated. "Have you thought about taking Dreamless Sleep for a while, and seeing if they calm down?"

"You know that I can't do that," Harry said. His voice was calm as he had wanted it to be when he spoke to Nora last night. He smiled at Hermione. "I had to learn to face and live with my nightmares after the war, instead of hiding from them with a potion, and this is more of the same thing. Wouldn't you agree?"

Hermione stood there with a silent struggle going on behind her eyes, but Harry was sure that he was going to win this one. She had taken away his Dreamless Sleep potion when he moved in with her and Ron, pointing out that it was addictive, and ultimately it would stop affecting the dreams and giving him relief, anyway. He should be able to stand on his own two feet; the dreams couldn't be worse than Voldemort.

And Harry had to admit that she'd been right. He'd fought and faced his enemies in his nightmares about the war, and he'd beaten them.

That experience was going to work for him now, instead of against him. Yes, Hermione would probably worry if she knew about the extent of the dreams, but she knew about at least _some _of it, and she would probably think that these dreams were expressions of scars deep in Harry's psyche. He had to accept them, or the scars would get worse, and the wounds would fester and break open.

Or something. Harry had to admit that Hermione was more into psychology as he was, and understood it better. Harry understood need, and heroism, and helping people.

"All right," Hermione said at last. "But if the dreams start doing things to you like making you fall asleep in the middle of the day, then I want you to tell me."

Harry made a careful note not to do that if she was in the office—well, she would probably wake him up before he could get into the dream world—and nodded. "All right."

_There, _he thought triumphantly as they both turned back to their books. _Now Malfoy can tell Hermione if he wants, and she'll just say that she knows. I've taken away a weapon that he could use against me._

Harry frowned in the next moment. _When did I start thinking of Malfoy as an enemy? Like Discipula is?_

* * *

"Ms. Skeeter?" Harry asked, knocking again on the door of the office he'd been told was hers.

Skeeter's door popped open, and a long eye on a stalk, with a monocle over it, stuck out towards him and looked him up and down. The sight reminded Harry so strongly of Moody's eye in Umbridge's door that he started and shivered. But apparently the eye was only a security procedure, because it vanished in a puff of smoke and then Skeeter was on her feet, striding around the desk towards him.

"You're Harry Evans, the barrister who's defending the Malfoys," she gushed, holding out her hand to him. "I have _so _wanted to meet you. _Forgive _me for not welcoming you in at once. You know how it is. We famous people have to guard our privacy every minute of the day, or we get _none_."

"Er, yes," Harry said, shaking her hand and trying not to stare. Skeeter was the only person he had met who looked exactly the same in this version of his universe as she did back home. Her hair was still tightly curled, her glasses so ugly that Harry thought Malfoy would never have made fun of his at Hogwarts if he'd been properly paying attention. She all but fawned on him as she led him past awards for "investigative reporting" and seated him in front of her desk.

"Now, Mr. Evans, what can I do for you?" She leaned forwards with her hands folded on the desk and beamed at him. "Tea?"

"Er, not right now," Harry said, and told himself he had to sound more certain. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I wanted to know if you would be interested in doing an exclusive story on the Malfoys. In return for some information, of course."

Skeeter's face softened and shone, making her almost attractive. "How _intriguing_, Mr. Evans," she breathed. "You're serious?"

"I need information about Discipula, and I don't have enough," Harry said, meeting her eyes. "Yes, I'm serious."

Skeeter, to his surprise, leaned back in her chair and considered him with a sober expression that Harry didn't think he'd ever seen on the face of her counterpart in his world. Her fingers tightened and then relaxed again on the arms of her chair, and she sucked in so much air that Harry wondered if she would hurt herself. Then she said, "I don't think you're threatening me. Are you?"

Harry had to blink, because he had no idea what she meant or what was going on. "What?"

"No," Skeeter said a moment later, after intense study of him. "You're not telling the truth about everything, I can sense that." She said it as simply as though it was an ordinary skill instead of a surprising one, with the ability to put Harry on the defensive, and then continued, "But you're not the kind of pawn she would favor. She likes the ones who are so blinded by their own emotions that they don't realize what she's doing. Hmmm."

"What do you mean? Who are you talking about?" Harry demanded, even though he had the feeling he knew. He tucked away the information that Skeeter had just let slip while trying to look casual. So Discipula liked to manipulate people by using their emotions? That would explain why she had introduced him to Nora, because she wanted Harry to respond with anger or fascination and lose track of what she was doing.

Which was what? Harry still hadn't uncovered a reason for her to be so interested in killing the Malfoys.

"Discipula, of course." Skeeter's fingernails made the desk ring. "Why don't you tell me what information you need about her, and why?"

"I think she has a grudge against the Malfoys," Harry said at once. He saw nothing wrong in sharing his conclusions with Skeeter. He had always planned to, because he thought it was the only way she would help them. "But I don't know why. I have to find out. I also think that she has some oddly contradictory attitudes, since she's executed Muggleborn Death Eaters but also has a Muggleborn woman working for her."

"That's not necessarily a contradiction," Skeeter murmured. "Lots of pure-bloods will employ the more useful Muggleborns."

"But if she's a pure-blood fanatic, then what grudge would she have against the Malfoys?" Harry shook his head. "She would probably believe the same things they did, and work to get them off."

"I don't know about that," said Skeeter, while her eyes brightened and a private, inward smile took over her lips. "They might have done something personal to her, something that she wants them to die for, and when she found herself in a position of power over them, she took the chance."

"Do you believe that?" Harry demanded. "Have you uncovered evidence that she and Lucius hate each other, or something?"

"Very few people would use Lucius Malfoy's first name." Skeeter tapped her nails on the desk again. "You grow more interesting by the moment, Mr. Evans."

"He's my client. And it's hard to distinguish between people who have that last name otherwise," said Harry dryly. "Now. Do you _know _anything about a grudge that Discipula has against the Malfoys? Perhaps Narcissa, if not Lucius?"

"Not really," Skeeter said, seeming to relent. "But I can find out. It's the sort of thing that I've thought of investigating before, but there didn't seem to be much call for it, especially with public opinion so against the Malfoys. But we're about to change that and make the public sympathetic instead, you and I." She smiled and took out the Quick-Quotes Quill.

Harry found himself smiling back. It was possible that he would enjoy this interview, since he didn't really have to worry about how his words would affect the public image of himself here.

"I chose to defend the Malfoys because I've always wanted to help the downtrodden," he began.

* * *

"Harry."

The voice was so subdued at first that Harry turned around with a welcoming smile before he thought about it. He was outside a courtroom waiting for Hermione, as usual—she was making arguments that he already knew and understood, and he knew that she would win the trial—and he assumed she had finished early, or Ron had come seeking them.

But no, instead Malfoy stood behind him, and Harry took a cautious step backwards. It didn't matter that Malfoy was standing there with his head bowed and his eyes half-closed, humble—or at least humble-looking—at the moment. He was still here to do something that had to do with the dreams, probably.

"Yeah?" Harry asked cautiously, when he realized that Malfoy probably wouldn't move or say anything until he did.

Malfoy took a deep breath and looked up. "I went to see several dream experts, because I couldn't believe what the first one said," he muttered. "You were right. None of them had heard of anything like your dreams, and they said it wasn't dangerous. You can feel free to dream all you like and rescue my counterpart, and no one's going to stop you."

Harry frowned. He felt oddly conflicted, considering the way he had _expected _to feel when Malfoy admitted that he'd been wrong. He reached out a tentative hand to put it on Malfoy's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Malfoy abruptly came to life, seizing his hand and holding it captive in a grip so strong that Harry winced. Malfoy didn't seem to notice, leaning forwards to stare into Harry's face.

"_No_," he said. "I want you and I don't want you, because how can I want someone who pushes me away so much? I don't want to worry about you, but I do, because I don't think those dreams are natural no matter what the experts say. And all the while, you're only interested in having a version of me who probably follows you around like a lost puppy."

Harry stared at him. He wanted to deny that Draco was like that, but he could see how someone else _could _see those adoring eyes and decide that. Draco adored Harry even though he hadn't really done anything yet, simply because there was someone who was willing to fight for him.

How could Harry give that up, though? Of course he was going to like someone, to want to date someone, who needed him.

"I can do something for him," Harry said, because Malfoy hadn't let him go and was still waiting for an answer. "I can't do anything for you. You're self-sufficient. Even helping you to become a better Quidditch player—that isn't a matter of life and death."

Malfoy's hands moved up to cup Harry's face. He was only an inch or two away now, and Harry found himself having to look at him more intensely than he had looked at anyone but Draco in the last few days.

"Not everything is a matter of life and death," Malfoy said softly. "Some of us live in the more normal world. Some of us _want _people, and some of us try to adapt ourselves to the changing circumstances of life. I reckon that's the answer for me sticking around," he added, as if he'd surprised himself. "Because I still want to see what happens next, even if the present isn't promising."

He kissed Harry, nothing more than the soft touch of lips, and then he turned around and walked away with his head proudly lifted.

Harry blinked as he watched him go. He felt—well. Attraction was too strong a word for it.

But he felt, for the first time, as if it might be worthwhile to let Malfoy stay around and see what happened.


	14. Seeing What Happens

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Fourteen—Seeing What Happens_

"I wonder what she wants."

Harry smiled. He had been asking the same question about Discipula of Skeeter, but he hadn't put it as bluntly as Draco did. Harry wondered if Draco was actually physically younger because of the difference in their timelines; Harry still didn't have a good grasp on exactly how much time had passed between the end of the war and the start of the trials, since it was easy for the Malfoys to lose track of time and he wanted to ask around cautiously of other people. "I don't know," Harry admitted. "But when I learn it, then I'll be able to oppose her more effectively."

"Sure wise words for one so young," Narcissa said. "I think that you are really not so much older than our Draco, are you, Mr. _Evans_?"

Harry looked at her cautiously. He had become aware, the last few times that he'd visited Draco and his family, that she was concentrating on him, observing him with an intensity that left frown lines in her forehead. Lucius had perhaps given that task over to her, Harry thought, because _he _sat back and simply twisted his cane between his fingers now, bowing his head when Harry glanced at him. Harry didn't know what either of them, and didn't trust them not to lie to him if he asked. It was nerve-racking.

"I'm not that much older," he agreed, and turned back to Draco. "Anything that you can remember about her would be helpful, you know."

Draco sighed. "I know. But she was just _there_, in the background. She was one of the Ministry officials at the Tri-Wizard Tournament, I remember that. And she was one of those people who always seemed to show up at Hogwarts when the Ministry had decided that it should be shut down or the Headmaster should be challenged. She showed up towards the end of second year when they wanted Dumbledore gone from the school because of the Chamber of Secrets, and towards the end of first year—but I don't remember what for."

"Was she powerful then?" Harry asked, glancing at Lucius to tell him that he could contribute if he wanted to. "Working her way towards power? Standing in the Minister's shadow and hoping that no one would notice her?"

Lucius played with his cane.

Draco sighed for a moment and closed his eyes, frowning the way his mother did now, as if he had to concentrate in much the same way to recall details. "I never heard anyone talk about her separately from the rest of the Ministry. Not even Pansy's parents, when I was at their house. And they seemed like people who knew all about politics." He didn't have to say, Harry thought, that his parents hadn't talked about her much, either. He would have known more details about Discipula otherwise. "I—well, she was as dangerous as the rest of the people in the Ministry who might have had a grudge against us, but no more than that. Until the war ended, and she was the one put in charge of us." He looked helplessly at Harry.

"But the source of her grudge?" Harry asked. "Could it be that she opposed something your father wanted to do as governor of the school?" He ignored Lucius, although he thought he could have addressed the question to him. Lucius probably wouldn't answer anyway.

"I never heard," Draco admitted. He looked a bit embarrassed. "I always assumed that she hated us for the same reasons that other people did. Because we were rich and powerful. It was assumed that everyone was either our ally or our enemy, or that they'd like to be. Hatred or envy or fear. But not neutrality."

Harry smiled. He couldn't imagine Malfoy apologizing for his family's prestige that way. He wouldn't care how comfortable Harry was or wasn't with his family's past. He would just go ahead and talk the way he wanted to.

_Yes, well, Malfoy is all about want._

Harry ignored the possibly-uncomfortable turn his thoughts were taking so that he could concentrate on Draco. "Her family. You don't know much about them, either?"

Draco shook his head. "What I've already told you, and no more than that."

Harry sat back with a sigh. It seemed that he could do nothing more than wait for the lines already in the water, with Hermione and Skeeter, to snag a fish. "Well. Then I reckon that we'll have to—"

Someone knocked on the door.

Harry turned around with a raised eyebrow. Though Discipula and her people had become a bit more polite lately about entering the room where they'd confined the Malfoys, they still didn't usually knock. On the other hand, he couldn't imagine someone else coming here unescorted. Discipula still didn't want to let anyone through to them who wasn't loyal to her.

Lucius, he noticed when he glanced back at him, was smiling.

Since no one else volunteered to do so—Draco was staring at the door in shock—Harry stood up and went to open the door.

The man who stood beyond it was extraordinarily tall. Harry had to take a step back so that he wouldn't feel like he was craning his neck to see into the bloke's face. His hair was long, thick, and white, as long as some wizards kept their beards. Or so Harry thought; since most of it was coiled into a smooth braid, he couldn't be sure. He had a cane like Lucius's, though since it was hung on his arm, Harry was fairly sure that he didn't need it.

His eyes were cold and dark and contemptuous. Harry wondered for a moment if he had seen him before, but then realized that, no, he had simply seen that _manner _before. It was the way that Death Eaters used to look at Muggleborns.

"Let me in," he said, his voice slightly tinged with an accent Harry didn't recognize. "I have come to be a character witness for Malfoy."

Harry stood up as straight as he could and decided that looking startled or frightened would be counterproductive. "Woburn?"

"Yes," he said, no more than that, and stooped so that he could pass under the doorway. Harry backed up to let him, all the while thinking furiously but trying to keep his face calm and relaxed.

The man didn't walk into the room; he glided. Harry was willing to bet that he had attached spells of some kind to his robes, because it was the only way Harry could imagine anyone moving that way. Woburn turned around in the middle of the chamber and scanned the walls as if he were looking for weaknesses where someone could break through.

Then he faced Harry and stared at him. His expression showed nothing, but Harry had the feeling that he was concealing a sneer anyway. Someone like him always would be, and Ron _had _said that Woburn was always the very highest of the pure-bloods or a mask for them. Of course he would disdain someone Muggleborn.

"You are the fool who has appointed yourself Lucius's barrister?" No attempt to make this more friendly, Harry thought. Well, he could live with that. He looked the man in the eye and nodded once.

"Why?" Woburn asked.

Harry would have liked to check out Lucius's expression then, to see if it was still a smirk. He had seemed confident that Woburn would defend him without further prompting once he learned of the need. Harry wondered what it would take to convince Woburn to do it, the way he seemed to want to be persuaded. "Because he deserves a fair trial just like anyone else," Harry said. "They all do." He reached out and squeezed Draco's hand. Draco responded gratefully, though he never took his eyes from Woburn's imposing figure. "If someone else had volunteered, I wouldn't be standing here. But no one else did, so I am."

"You are the last resort, then," Woburn said. "Someone who reluctantly acts when he must, when others have failed him."

Harry laughed a bit. "I've never thought of myself that way," he said, when Woburn stared at him. "I've thought of myself as someone people could trust because I wouldn't act quickly just because someone else wanted me to or because I could be bribed or wanted the public's good opinion, but because someone else honestly needed me. But the way you see me works, too." He was relaxing, oddly enough. He wondered if Lucius's hostility had prepared him for someone like this.

Woburn bent closer as if he wanted to peer into Harry's eyes. Harry let him, though he couldn't imagine what Woburn would see. Madly dancing demons? Dishonesty? Of course he wouldn't believe what Harry had said.

"You have no reputation to risk," Woburn whispered. "No one has heard of you before, and no one will care if you fail."

"The Malfoys would care," Harry said. "Draco might die, and his parents. Yes, I would like to avoid that happening if I can. There are consequences to my failure, though they might not be ones that would matter to you."

Woburn took a step back this time. Harry hoped that whatever he had seen in Harry's face was too much for him, but he was too good at controlling his expressions; no emotion disturbed them even now. "Are you implying that I should help you with the case because of what might happen to them? It is true that I know Lucius. It is also true that you have offered me no incentive to speak out."

Harry snorted. "You would probably think I was stupid if I did try to offer you one. You despise my kind, and what can I offer to someone who's fabulously rich? I could try a different kind of bribe than the monetary one, but I know nothing about you, so it would be stupid to try until I do."

Woburn leaned forwards again. Harry half-thought that he would keep swaying, like a reed in the wind until he saw something that made up his mind for him. Harry had had the impression of a man of great force and power when he came in, but he didn't seem inclined to do anything but make minor factual statements so far.

"Who are you?" Woburn breathed.

Harry mentally rolled his eyes. Was this all going to happen again? He didn't see any reason to repeat what he had already told everyone involved, since Woburn could have heard of this through other channels. But possibly he wanted to hear it from Harry's own mouth, to check the story for inconsistencies, so Harry began obediently to recite. "My name is Harry Evans. I'm part of a large family of Muggleborn wizards who educate themselves away from Hogwarts, and marry among Muggles, and don't give a shit about your precious pure-blood ideals. I wouldn't have turned up at all except that I got curious and restless."

Draco, he saw, was looking at him with obvious pride from the corner of one eye. Harry grinned back. It took little to make Draco happy, he thought. In this case, it was just knowing a secret about Harry that a stranger didn't. Harry wondered what other gifts he could bring Draco, ranging from the simple to the complex, when the trial was over and he didn't need Harry in the capacity of barrister anymore.

"I had heard that," Woburn said, and the way he spoke made Harry bristle. Woburn oughtn't to have asked him to repeat that cover story if he already knew it. But before Harry could interrupt, Woburn went on. "And it is not the truth. I know things about you that you do not know. One of them is when you are lying."

"What I said is the truth," Harry said. "I want to be a barrister, I'm Muggleborn, my name is Harry Evans, blah blah blah. What else do you want me to say?" He didn't think Woburn could know he was from an alternate universe just by listening to him, so he tried not to feel defensive.

Woburn's eyebrows bristled out as though he was picking up Harry's words through them. Then he clucked his tongue. "It is a lie about your name," he said. "And I believe it is also a lie about your heritage. Someone who is Muggleborn would not talk so to someone who is pure-blood."

Harry sneered at him. He could see why Lucius apparently got along with the man, but not why he had hoped for help from him as long as he retained Harry as his defender. Woburn was bound up in all the old prejudices and stereotypes, and Harry doubted there was any way to get through to him. "Believe what you want. The fact remains that I'm here to help. I don't think you can do the same thing," he added, to end the interrogation and draw the focus back to where it should be, on Woburn's own disposition and goals.

Woburn took a slow step away from him and stood there for a moment with eyes half-closed, as though he was trying to determine whether he should respond at all to Harry's impudent words. Then he nodded. "It does not matter, perhaps," he said, and Harry had the distinct impression that he was addressing someone else, someone not visible in the room. "I will still do what I came for. I may be a bit slower in leaving. That is all."

Then he turned around and faced Harry again, his expression as smooth and closed-off as it had been before, but perhaps not impossible to get something out of. "How may I serve you, Mr. Evans?"

* * *

"Have you reconsidered?"

Harry blinked. Malfoy seemed to have acquired the habit of dropping in on him at any point during his day, whether it was outside courtrooms or in his office or at a time like this, when Harry was walking towards the building he shared with Hermione and trying to figure out how he could charm, or at least use, Woburn.

"Reconsidered what?" Harry asked, and then realized he sounded like an idiot. Malfoy was giving him that sort of slow, scornful look he reserved for idiots, anyway, and Harry didn't want to look like a moron around him, though that was probably vain (in more than one sense). "Going to a dream expert? You already told me that they said it was nothing dangerous."

"I still think they're wrong," Malfoy said, but he held up a hand when Harry opened his mouth angrily to contest that. "We don't have to talk about it. In fact, it's better if we don't. No, I meant reconsidering dating me and helping me with Quidditch games."

Harry closed his mouth and swallowed. Nothing about the dreams, other than one incidental remark. No moaning about how Draco couldn't give Harry everything that Malfoy could, or how Malfoy couldn't decide if he wanted Harry.

It was almost enough to make him wonder whether this was the real Malfoy. A surreptitious glance up and down his body revealed no shimmer of a glamour, though, or any sign of a flask that could contain Polyjuice Potion.

Malfoy gave him a glance back that said he knew exactly what Harry was looking for, and that it amused him. Harry shook his head and hurried on into the neutral territory that it seemed Malfoy had opened. Well, relatively neutral, anyway.

"How much do you really need someone to help you with Quidditch?" Harry asked. "Have your teammates threatened you or refused to let you Seek the way they should? Has your trainer threatened to drop you? You seem concerned about a threat that could well be imaginary."

Malfoy touched his fingertips together and raised his face to the skies. When Harry stared at him, he said, "I'm thanking God. It's wonderful that you can have a coherent thought in your head or express it in words of more than one syllable."

Harry kicked him in the shin. Malfoy hopped up and down, ignoring the stares from the people they passed, and announced, "_That's _a threat. I think I should hire Granger to defend me. She'd win."

"Prat," Harry said, but he was half-grinning, or feeling as if he wanted to, anyway. "Answer the question. Was this Quidditch training mainly the excuse to approach me, or do you really think they'd get rid of a good Seeker because of your past?"

"It's nothing as blunt as what you're talking about," Malfoy said, dropping his foot, although he still walked with a slight limp that Harry knew he must be exaggerating. "It's more of an atmosphere. Eyes catching eyes. Certain conversations ceasing when I enter the room. People making statements that they then abbreviate when they see me. Or worse, they know they should take them back—the rules of politeness mandate that much—but they don't want to because they actually believe them when it comes to me."

"Some of that might be paranoia," Harry pointed out as kindly as he could. Hermione had often accused him of being oblivious, but Harry thought that was preferable. At least he reacted to real threats when they were actually in front of him.

Malfoy glanced at him with burning eyes. "Perhaps. But I do think that the danger is real. They've been interviewing potential Seekers lately. And you forget, I'm only a reserve Seeker. I want to move up."

"Of course you do," Harry muttered. "What was it the Hat said? 'Slytherin loved those of great ambition?'"

"Come _off _it." Malfoy whirled around abruptly, facing him. Harry blinked, finding himself caught in an intense confrontation as unexpected as Malfoy's playfulness earlier had been. The people around them gave them nervous glances and walked faster, now, rather than seeming puzzled. "You know that that's a load of bollocks. It only exists because the Founders were fantastic arses sometimes and they wanted a convenient way to categorize their students. Unless you're going to tell me that you _believe _all that rot about Gryffindors being pure and brave while Slytherins are the only ones in the school with any cunning. Why wouldn't we have won the war, if we were?"

Harry sighed and looked around, half-hoping that someone would decide their precious Savior was being harassed by a nasty Death Eater, just so that he could get out of this row. But the people around him kept walking, as usual, head lowered and eyes fastened on the ground, and Harry knew that he would get no help there. He turned back to Malfoy and tried to find the words.

_This is one reason it's easier with Draco. We don't have the history of the war and our history together fucking us up._

"It's a convenient way to talk," he said. "I still call people Slytherins and Gryffindors, and I know people who do. I don't think all of them _believe _it as much as we used to when we were dumb little kids, but they still say it. And I don't know you well at all, so why not say it?"

Malfoy eyed him with the same level of intensity as before, then let out a quiet laugh and bowed his head, rubbing the back of his neck. Harry remained cautious and still, but it seemed as though Malfoy wasn't going to act like a raging wanker right this minute, which was always an advantage.

"I told you that I don't know how I feel about you," Malfoy murmured. "But I must feel something strong, or why would I react to a careless phrase that way?" He blew out his breath quietly and met Harry's eyes. "I hear the same phrase used in all seriousness to dismiss me and my history by my teammates, however. I don't like it."

Harry nodded, still unsure. He wondered if he _wanted _to date someone who had such strong mood swings on a consistent basis. "All right. I'll try to remember not to say it again."

Malfoy gave him a meltingly sweet smile. It took Harry a moment to work out the reason why. He had promised as gravely as though he and Malfoy were already dating, or—whatever. Harry looked ahead, counting the number of steps that remained to his building. The sooner he was out of this confusing situation, the better.

"I still want you to practice with me," Malfoy said. "I still think that I need the practice, to be good enough that they can't dismiss me."

"If the prejudice is as strong as you described, then they'll find a way to dismiss you sooner or later," Harry said. He could understand what Malfoy was going through if he reached back far enough in his memory. "All those people at Hogwarts, they _knew _one day that I wasn't the Heir of Slytherin, and the next day they were willing to believe it. So I knew they didn't really support me as a hero; they were uneasily fascinated with me, wanting me for what they thought was this unique talent to survive the Killing Curse but not really understanding or liking me. It's the same situation with you. Instead of practicing harder and trying to achieve the impossible, find another Quidditch team that will treat you like the person you deserve to be treated as."

Malfoy stared at him with a strange, soft expression on his face. _This is confusing, too, _Harry thought. He found himself wishing he was asleep, longing for Draco. Draco was so much _simpler. _Harry knew what he had to do, and even when he was dealing with problems in that other world, it was people like Discipula who caused them, not his Draco.

"You are," Malfoy said.

"Er." Harry decided showing his confusion could do no damage this once, when he had _no_ idea what Malfoy was talking about. "What?"

Malfoy reached out and started to act as if he would seize Harry's hand, but when Harry flinched automatically in anticipation of the pain, Malfoy just paused and laid his hand gently along Harry's arm instead. "You are treating me like the kind of person I deserve to be treated as," Malfoy said. "I didn't think you would, but you are. And it's not even difficult for you."

"Yes, it is," Harry said, feeling obscurely threatened by the wonder in Malfoy's voice. "I've irritated you and disregarded your advice, remember? It's true that I think you should be on a Quidditch team that treats you as a good Seeker, but that's the kind of thing I would do for anyone, not—not a special gift to you or anything."

"Like I'm anyone else," Malfoy said. "That's special enough. You're not treating me like a Death Eater anymore. A _Slytherin_ everyone has to abuse. Being treated like other people is more than enough. That's what no one else can do, though."

For an alarming moment, Harry thought Malfoy might lay his head on Harry's shoulder or something. He cleared his throat and stepped back, trying a weak joke. "If I'd known that was all it took to get you to behave rationally, I would have done it weeks ago."

"I'm going to take your advice," Malfoy went on, apparently ignoring Harry's latest words as they weren't worthy of a response. When Harry reviewed them in his head, he had to admit that they didn't sound very worthy. "Challenge a few of the people who sometimes act as though they want to pat me on the head and sometimes as though they expect me to murder them in midair. I'll ask them what they really mean. If they can't give me good answers—and they _should_; it affects the team's play when they can't trust someone on it—then I can leave and find something else." His face shone with determination.

"Er," Harry said. "Are you sure you want to? You might not find something as good."

Malfoy laughed at him, low-throated. "What? You won't recommend courage to someone else even though it does so well for you?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"Don't worry, Harry, I won't hold you responsible if it doesn't work out," Malfoy said airily, kissed his cheek, and went off with the same kind of strong stride he had shown yesterday in the courtroom.

Harry blinked after him. He had no idea what Malfoy would do next.

_This "seeing-what-happens" thing is a bit unnerving._


	15. Laughter and Stupid Things

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Fifteen—Laughter and Stupid Things_

"But Malfoy, mate?"

Harry would have liked to bury his face in his cereal, or at least fill his mouth with it to the point that Ron couldn't ask him any more questions. But Ron was staring at him right now, his face so baffled and so red that Harry knew he owed him an explanation. He hadn't seen Ron this serious about anything since the war.

"It was nothing," he muttered. "I didn't moan _Malfoy _in my sleep, did I? It was just a bloody dream. I told you about them. They get stronger all the time. Fucking things," he added fervently, and poured milk into his bowl until it almost overflowed. Then he took a large bite, so that he would have an even better excuse for not answering. Hermione wasn't here this morning, having stayed out late last night comforting a client who feared she would lose her case, or Harry knew he couldn't have escaped the interrogation for _this _long.

"No, you moaned 'Draco,'" Ron said. "Which isn't a better name to hear coming out of your best mate's mouth, let me tell you. Since when did you get on intimate terms with the Source of All Evil?"

"The Source of All Evil is dead," Harry reminded him, brushing his fringe aside so that Ron could see the faded scar. "Remember?"

"The laws of balance in the world demand that a new Source of All Evil rise to replace the old one," Ron said comfortably. "And what better source than Malfoy?"

Harry shook his head wordlessly. He was still trying to figure out two things: why he would be moaning the name "Draco" in his sleep, when he and Draco hadn't done anything at all sexual in the dreams last night, and why Ron had walked in at exactly the right moment to hear it. That he wanted to wake Harry up so that he could get to the office on time and Hermione wouldn't yell at Ron for not doing it was only the ostensible reason. How could the universe be so unfair?

"Well, mate," Ron said, and took a few neat swallows of tea, as if he assumed that Harry would be inspired to tell him everything by the way his throat moved. "I'm waiting."

Harry sighed. "This isn't something I'm proud of," he said. "But some of the dreams are about Malfoy, and the way that he might be different in a different world." He had told Hermione and Ron that much before, that the dreams were about a different universe, and he was glad that he had, now. A lie with a strong mixture of truth was the best kind of lie to have.

"Um," Ron said, when some time had passed, with Harry staring into his cereal, rather than at his best mate. "Yeah, I don't see how you get from there to moaning his name. Please tell me that you're not dating him in that other universe."

"It's not that simple," Harry said weakly. He hated the way that Ron's words made him feel: defensive and anxious and as if—

Why should it be so hard to picture himself dating Draco? Was he really that pessimistic about winning the case? He'd thought he'd made some progress with Woburn last night, who had answered enough of Harry's questions to prove that he'd known Lucius for a long time and was highly respected. And Draco had been there the whole time, watching with admiration as Harry handled the insults that Woburn still sometimes tossed at him like firecrackers, waiting to see if he would jump.

He shouldn't be so miserable, or so embarrassed that Ron had overheard him moaning that particular name. Of course, it would also have helped if he'd known why _that _particular name.

"Oh, what, something more complicated?" Ron looked as if he was on the verge of standing up from his chair and bolting out of the room. "Don't tell me that you're _married _or something like that, mate. I don't think my heart could stand it." He'd picked up his teacup as though he was going to take a sip, but he put it carefully back down now, as if he was afraid that he would drop it.

"No," Harry said. "It's none of those things. Really, it's not." He rose to his feet in agitation, shaking his head. He had to get away from Ron before he said or did something he'd regret. It wasn't Ron's fault that he'd overheard Harry moaning the name, and it wasn't Harry's fault that he'd moaned, and everything would be better if Hermione never heard about the whole awkward situation. "Look, can you keep this from Hermione? I don't think she'll be thrilled to know that these dreams are still continuing."

Ron put up a defensive hand. "I'm not standing up to _that _juggernaut, mate."

"Where did you learn a big word like 'juggernaut?'" Harry muttered.

"I'm going to ignore that," said Ron with some dignity, "because I am the mature one around here."

"Could have fooled me."

Ron glared at him and turned away. "I won't bring it up," he said over his shoulder, as he went back into the kitchen to fetch toast. "But if she learns about it anyway, then I won't lie to her, either."

"That's fair," Harry called after him, and then turned and left the room, shaking his head. He was starting to wonder if Malfoy had been right about the way his hands twitched in his physical body while he dreamed after all. Perhaps the physical reactions and the reactions in his dreams influenced each other, coordinated somehow, even if they weren't directly connected. He should try to learn more about them if he could.

Just—not to stop the dreams. The mere thought caused a bone-deep panic that made Harry want to sit down and put his head between his knees.

_Hermione and Malfoy would probably say that that isn't normal, either._

Harry sighed. He had to remember that all his friends could really do was encourage him to act otherwise. They couldn't _force _him to. He had to leave the mindset that was a product of life with the Dursleys and at Hogwarts behind if he could.

* * *

"This is getting predictable, you know," Harry told Malfoy when he appeared in the doorway of Harry's office later that day, grinning like a maniac. "You wouldn't want anyone to say that you were getting predictable, would you? You should at least surprise me at lunch or something, once, instead of in the office."

Malfoy waved a hand as though this was so much unimportant hot air, and for all Harry knew, it was to him. He strode into the office and stood there, practically vibrating. Harry watched him with a half-smile. When Malfoy wasn't plaguing Harry endlessly to stop the dreams or to date him, then Harry could see the amusing side of him.

"I did it," Malfoy said. "I announced that I was quitting the team and that I wished them luck in finding a Seeker who would do more for them than I did."

Harry smiled. "Wonderful! And what did they say to that?" He half-hoped that Malfoy's team had panicked and kept him on instead. They had to realize that Malfoy had skill and someone would pick him up sooner or later.

Malfoy gave him a brief sneer. "They were upset and embarrassed and made speeches about how it was my fault, what did you think? If you're expecting a miraculous change of heart, Potter, then I'm afraid to say that you'll have to stick to fairy tales. You can't really believe people will change their minds overnight."

"No, but I hoped for it," Harry admitted. _Not least because it would mean that you were paranoid, and it would give you somewhere to go. _"You don't have a lead on another Quidditch team?"

"Not right now." Malfoy fidgeted for a moment, running his fingers through his hair yet, and then turned a beseeching glance on Harry. Harry caught his breath briefly. He could see why _Witch Weekly _sometimes included Malfoy in its articles on appealing Quidditch players. His eyes could be clear when you looked into them the right way, clear and icy grey like raging river water, and they could sweep a certain kind of person away.

_Not me, _Harry reminded himself hastily. _Besides, Draco's eyes are probably even brighter if you look into them the right way. I just haven't had the chance to do that yet._

"I don't suppose you know anyone who could give me an opportunity?" Malfoy asked. "Since your ex-girlfriend is a Quidditch player and all."

Harry snorted. "If you're looking for a place on the Harpies, I think a little matter of a gender change is in order."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Git. Of course not. But she might know someone who might know someone…" He let his voice trail off hopefully.

Harry had to shake his head. "I don't know anyone personally," he said. "And Ginny would be—well, the wrong person to ask, given our history."

Malfoy blinked at him. "I thought you had a _good _history with her."

"Yeah," Harry said dryly. "Sometimes. I thought I loved her, but we weren't right for each other, and we had a particularly wrong phase right before we broke off." He sat up, his mind caught by something Ginny had said to him before their breakup. "But I do know that the Cannons might be looking for a Seeker soon. Their current one is old and has weak hands, but he's hanging on still. They're trying to coax him to retire, but he keeps saying that he never will until he sees someone who's as good as he was when he was a young man."

"The _Cannons_?" Malfoy sneered, and Harry's mind flew back half a dozen years to Hogwarts and the way Malfoy had looked at him when he strutted past in the company of his goons. But one of those goons was dead in a fire, Harry reminded himself, and he didn't think Malfoy was that person anymore.

Most of the time.

"You are fucking joking," Malfoy said, now in a haughty tone. "You do it well, I'll grant you that. But you're joking, and you should realize that I have a weak heart. A hereditary condition. You'd do well not to give me a shock like that again. Do you want to deal with me dead on the floor of your office?"

"I don't want to deal with you dead at all," Harry retorted. "I know that you'd return and haunt me for spite's sake."

Malfoy smiled at him, head tilting down and eyelashes lowering as though he intended to flirt. "I _am _persistent," he murmured.

Harry rolled his eyes. "And yes, I was serious about the Cannons. Their current Seeker's still with them. What's his name? Rigsby? Something like that."

"Hollins Rigsby," Malfoy said, his mouth twisted in pain. "Potter, I cannot believe that you are _suggesting_—the day that a Malfoy plays for a losing team is the day that I sell the Manor and change my name, because no one else who comes after me deserves to be reminded of the disgrace."

"Do you have a better idea?" Harry snapped. "Besides, they might stop losing if they had a decent Seeker for once. And just because Ron likes them doesn't automatically make them an inferior team."

Malfoy stared at him as if he thought that Harry might have hit his head. "Yes, it does," he said.

Harry sighed and stood up. "Look, they might listen to you if I go with you and speak for you. Otherwise, they'd probably just assume that you were there to be bloody annoying." He started to walk towards the office door, and paused when he noticed that Malfoy simply stood in one place and stared at him. "Do you want my help or not?"

"You're so much more cooperative about this than you were about the training sessions," Malfoy muttered, following him.

"I couldn't tell what you wanted to achieve with the training sessions," Harry said, thinking for a moment before he remembered that the book with the Floo addresses of professional Quidditch players that Ginny had once maintained was at home. "I couldn't help you become better than you were, since I'm worse than you. I'm a lot better when I know what to do to help someone."

"And if you can't help that person?" Malfoy asked, his voice a breath behind Harry's ear. "If they're simply someone who stands on their own, wanting help, but not requiring it because they're not in danger?"

Harry turned to look back at him. Malfoy's eyes no longer had that striking clarity Harry had seen in them a moment before, but they did study him with an intensity that made Harry think the answer to that question mattered rather a lot.

"Then I need more direction," Harry said, and turned away, refusing to look back again. Malfoy might have sighed, but if so, Harry never heard it under the steady sounds of their footsteps down the stairs.

* * *

"I knew it."

Harry started. He had walked into the house without much thought, trying to remember where Ginny had put that book—no, where he had put it, because he had moved it in with everything else when he started living with Ron and Hermione. He hadn't noticed Ron sitting in the drawing room, and he really didn't understand why Ron had risen to his feet and was pointing one finger at Harry with a tragic expression.

Then he turned and saw Malfoy behind him, the disdainful target of Ron's pointing, and he understood.

"Look, Ron," he began.

"No," Ron interrupted. "I don't have to listen when it's perfectly obvious to any impartial observer what's going on here. I heard you moan his name this morning, and now here you are with him. You decided to bring him back so you could have wild sex in your bed and poison my mind forever. Probably with bondage. And ice. And feathers."

"I'm impressed, Weasley," Malfoy said seriously. "I never realized that your sexual repertoire was so large. I'll have to ask you for tips when Harry and I do fuck." He reached out and laid one hand on Harry's shoulder, larger and warmer and more _present _than Harry wanted.

Harry shook his head and shrugged off the hand, turning around with a curse on his lips. He'd thought Malfoy had given up the fantasy of them fucking. Harry had liked him better today because he'd acted more friendly and less like he was interested in getting into Harry's pants.

Malfoy only smiled at him and turned to Ron, though. "I wonder how many shades of red he can turn before he finally explodes?" he asked Harry in a tone of scientific interest.

Ron turned to Harry. "_You_," he said. Then he stalked out of the room. Harry listened anxiously for the slam of a door, and winced when he didn't hear it. At least, if Ron had done that, Harry would have been sure that he was releasing some of his feelings. Instead, he'd brood, and terrible things had happened since the war when Ron brooded.

"That was fun," Malfoy said.

Harry whirled on him. "What the fuck?" he demanded, though in a low voice, so that Ron wouldn't hear them and decide that they were thinking of new and innovative ways to have sex. No way to keep Hermione from hearing about _this_; it would be the first thing Ron would complain about when she came home. "You were acting normal, and then you decided to attack Ron?"

"An attack would be a hex." Malfoy looked down his nose at Harry. "This is the person I am, the person who wants your help to get on Quidditch teams and likes to give Weasleys heart attacks. You thought I had changed since Hogwarts?"

"Yes, I did," Harry said, forced into unhappy honesty. "You were normal enough in my office just a while ago!"

Malfoy's face softened. "Shall I tell you why?" he asked. "Would you like to hear the difference between my behavior now and my behavior then?"

"_Yes_," Harry hissed. If he could get a handle on Malfoy's volatile, constantly changing act, then he thought he could put up with him better. He at least needed to put up with him until Malfoy lost interest, Harry thought. It couldn't be that long, since Malfoy's mind seemed to change every few seconds.

Malfoy bent towards him. "Things have changed for me since Hogwarts," he said, in a serious tone but with a sharp delight in his eyes, so that Harry had no idea how far he should believe him. "I've grown and changed in the sense that I know more about what I want and what I need to do to fit in in society. I wouldn't hex someone purely for fun now or tattle on someone for sneaking a dragon through the corridors. This isn't school. This isn't childhood.

"But there are other ways I haven't changed. I still think it's fun to torment someone who was focused on tormenting me, someone from a family my family has had a feud with for generations. I still want what I want as free from any charge as possible. I still pout when I don't get my way. I'm not above minor Dark Arts sometimes. That's the kind of person you're dealing with, Potter. Perhaps I should have told you before. You probably would have understood me better."

Harry took a deep breath. "No, I fucking wouldn't have!" he yelled, without a concern for Ron's tender ears this time. "What you're saying is that you could have grown up, but you chose not to! You _chose _to go on playing and acting like a child, and when you want to, you ignore those instincts! But the rest of the time, you—you make Ron think we're fucking, and you embarrass me in front of bookshop owners, and you lean on me for support and shamelessly ask for my help!"

Malfoy considered him with bright eyes. "Well," he said at last, "yes."

Harry shook his head. "I do understand you better now," he said. "I understand that I can't have anything to do with you once I've got you your precious spot on a Quidditch team, which I think is why you approached me in the first bloody place! I need someone who—who doesn't _change _like that every five minutes!"

"I prefer to call it 'volatile.'" Malfoy said. "Or not growing up until I had to. The war made me mature against my will."

"You just said that you knew this wasn't childhood anymore," Harry hissed, and turned around. "_Accio _address book!"

It soared out of a corner of the shelves in the drawing room where Harry would never have thought to look. Of course, he thought as he caught it. Hermione had categorized it with other books about Quidditch. It probably made as much sense to her as any other method of organization.

"Here," Harry said, thrusting the book at Malfoy. "This used to belong to Ginny, but she doesn't want it anymore, and I won't use it. Use it to contact Rigsby—I still think he's your best bet—or anyone else you want to. And then _leave_. Don't come back. I think I've done as much for you as can reasonably be expected."

Malfoy took the book, but he looked perplexed. "I thought that would do it," he muttered. Harry wondered who he thought he was talking to. His imaginary friend whom he carried in his head, perhaps. "If I told him that I'm a person of all these contradictions. If he was interested in me, then he would pay attention to me and try to help me. He's supposed to be the person who extends compassion to everyone."

"I'm _right here_," Harry snarled. He had a particular hatred for people who talked past him as if he wasn't there, partially because the Dursleys had often done the same thing and partially because people who wanted to answer the questions reporters put to him would speak up before Harry could make his own denials.

Malfoy stepped back and stared at him as if he had honestly forgotten about Harry's presence until now. "Yeah, I know," he said quietly. "That's the problem. I did something stupid, and I thought that you would be furious when you found out about it. Then we could fight, and it would be like our relationships during our Hogwarts days. After that, maybe, with your attention on me, then we could start something different. But you didn't even _notice _when I did it, as if noticing me was beneath you." Bitterness crept into his voice, the first real emotion Harry thought he had heard from him all afternoon. The gaiety in his face and the claim that he was half a child was a mask, Harry thought, a façade. "So I tried to get your attention in a more sophisticated and adult way, and even that didn't work. Because I wasn't _desperate _enough, I suppose." He stared into the corner.

"What did you do that was stupid?' Harry was trying to maintain control over both his temper and his bewilderment. How in the world could Malfoy have thought that acting like a child would attract him? Or dancing around the subject and refusing to admit whether or not he wanted Harry?

"It doesn't bloody matter now, does it?" Malfoy raked his hand through his hair, a gesture Harry had never seen him use. Of course, at this point he was starting to wonder how much he knew about Malfoy anymore that was true. "It's over and done with, and there's no use in admitting it to you when it wouldn't make you do anything but yell at me. I've had enough of the yelling, thanks." He strode rapidly towards the door.

Harry couldn't let him go like that. He attempted to grab Malfoy's arm. Malfoy shrugged him off angrily.

"If you would have talked to me like this from the _beginning_," Harry began.

"All I ever wanted," Malfoy said over his shoulder, "was your friendship. And to fuck you, but the friendship would have been enough. I knew I had to have the friendship before anything else even if I _did _want to fuck you. But it didn't work—not acting like a child, not acting like an adult, not teasing you, not trying to help you, not being serious. And if I tell you the truth you'll just keep dismissing me."

"Malfoy—oi, Malfoy, hold _up_—"

But Malfoy stomped out the door, and by the time Harry could get to him, he had vanished with the sharp crack of Apparition. Harry would have followed if he could, but he had no idea where Malfoy would have gone. Home to brood, maybe, or to the pitch where he'd met Harry several times, to ride out his anger on the broom.

A bit shaken, Harry turned back into the house. He had had no idea that Malfoy would react like that to Harry telling him to get out, or—

Or what? Would he not have done it? No, he probably would have. He wanted to help Malfoy, but not at the price of being the constant target of Malfoy's teasing and Malfoy's changing moods. He could bloody well find someone else's friendship, while he was at it.

Not that Harry didn't wonder what stupid thing Malfoy had done to gain his attention. Perhaps it would be worthwhile to check the papers from a few weeks ago, or ask Hermione if she had heard anything.

But for right now, since Hermione wasn't home and there were no pressing cases today and Ron wouldn't come out of his room for a while…

Right now, Harry wanted to go to sleep and find Draco.


	16. Epiphany

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Sixteen—Epiphany_

"Everything's starting to work out, isn't it?"

Harry folded the _Daily Prophet, _which was carrying the second of the stories Rita Skeeter had written that asked questions about the Malfoy trial, and smiled at Draco. Draco was leaning forwards on the opposite side of the table, his eyes so bright that it made Harry want to shelter him, so he would never have cause to look sour or disappointed. "Yes," Harry admitted. "I think Discipula has to at least be turning over strategies in her mind for fighting us now."

"She will find them." That was Narcissa, speaking quietly across the remnants of a lunch of dry sandwiches. "She is canny, and has never had the instincts that make someone lash out in protection of power."

Harry kept his smile on his face as he turned to look at her, but it was with an effort. She could have _said _something about this before if she really understood Discipula, he thought. "Have you known her long, Mrs. Malfoy?"

As she tended to do when faced with a direct question, Narcissa closed up, and a lovely statue might have been sitting there. "I have known of her for years," she said. "She has been steadily gaining power in the Ministry, winning more of a foothold there."

_Which is nothing more than what Draco told me already, _Harry thought with a sigh. He was half-wishing now that he had had the chance to learn more about Discipula before he took the job defending the Malfoys. He had Hermione hunting, but she might change her mind about acting against her employer, or she might not get back to him soon.

"Is there anyone who would know more?" he asked. "About details of her past, her weaknesses, the reasons for her grudge against you?"

"She has survived by being transparent," Lucius intruded smoothly. "Her past is a matter of public record. I hardly think you will discover a Death Eater's robes in her closet."

"Then tell me more about her," Harry snapped, turning to look at him. "It seems as though no one _knows _anything even though she hasn't made an attempt to conceal it! Give me details. What does she like to do? Who are her allies? Does she have a reason that could be rooted in that past for hating you? That's the kind of thing I need to know, and what no one can tell me!"

Draco leaned in and put a tentative hand on his arm. "Harry," he murmured. Harry liked the way he said the name, deliberately calm and soothing but also with a twist on the last syllable that Harry hadn't ever heard before. "I'm sure my father doesn't mean anything by it. We don't know much because there's not much to know. She's made her career as an anonymous public servant. We all know whose daughter she is, but her parents are dead. She doesn't have any siblings. She makes allies in the same way that any politician does, using certain people when she's interested in certain causes and then breaking away when they turn on her or those causes are less important. I don't know of any prominent ones that she has right now. Then again, she's allied with the Boy-Who-Lived, so I don't think that matters." His voice turned wistful. "I wish the Boy-Who-Lived in this universe had been you."

Harry gave him a painful smile, and squeezed his hand. "I wouldn't be sitting here if he was," he answered. "I can't imagine he would have let this happen."

Lucius's voice struck out, bright with scorn. "You imagine that he would have concerned himself with the _Malfoys_? He would have been like you, a hero, and heroes traditionally have a very poor track record of associating with pure-blood families."

"He would have cared about justice," Harry said. It was true that he didn't know what his other-universe self would have been like, since he didn't even know if his parents had been the same kind of people here, but it was just as likely he would have been good as evil. "He would have seen that it was done, and he would have been more independent than Longbottom is of Discipula." He paused. "Do you think it's worth approaching him? Longbottom?"

Lucius snorted. "It is true that he has no pure-blood prejudice against us," he said. "As he has no particular cause or concern that he is dedicated to, now that he has brought down the Dark Lord." Harry gave him a particular glance, but if this Lucius mourned Voldemort's fall, there was no sign of it in his face. "He is a man of many negative qualities. I cannot think of one positive virtue he contains for himself."

Harry glanced at Draco. Draco nodded—reluctantly, Harry thought, but more because he didn't want to agree with his father than because he was going to defend this version of Neville.

"I knew him in school," Draco said. "That's what he was like. Not evil, not cruel, not intelligent, not stupid, not good or bad at Quidditch, not especially heroic—except when he actually met the Dark Lord—or cowardly. Just in the middle. Average, all around."

Harry shifted in his seat. He couldn't help wondering if this version of the Boy-Who-Lived was the one he should have _aspired _to be. He had said many times that he didn't want to be special, that he wanted to be Just Harry, but he had gone out for a place on his House Quidditch team and leaped unhesitatingly to the rescue many times. That didn't really make him average.

_You did it again, when you volunteered to defend the Malfoys, _said a voice in his head that sounded like, well, Malfoy's. _You can deny that you want to be a hero, but your behavior doesn't support that conclusion._

Harry sighed in irritation. He would get nowhere by worrying about this. He had to deal with the realities of the dream world, not what lay inside his own head. "All right. Forget Longbottom. I want to wait and see how Discipula reacts to this article, but I am going to start calling in the witnesses." Woburn had promised to be available when Harry needed him as a character witness, even giving him a Floo address that _should _work. Maybe, if he was in the mood. "Is that acceptable?"

Narcissa and Lucius both sat like statues again. Draco shot them a timid glance, then realized that he would have to be the one making the decision and licked his lips. "Yeah," he said a moment later, his voice wavering but strengthening as he looked into Harry's eyes. "It is."

Harry smiled, overcome by the impulse to kiss Draco in front of everyone. Draco's eyes widened in excitement, as if he had caught the idea. Then he flushed, apparently not knowing whether he wanted that to happen or not.

Harry kept his fingers from curling into Draco's robe and hauling him forwards by the slimmest of margins. He sat back and cleared his throat instead, glancing at the elder Malfoys just in case they had anything to add. But they remained there, and Harry turned around, reaching for the ink and parchment he always brought with him now. He had letters to write to McGonagall and Wellworth.

* * *

"Harry Potter, wake up this instant."

Harry's first instinct was to be alarmed that someone was calling him Potter rather than Evans, especially since the voice didn't sound like any of the Malfoys'. But when he opened his eyes, light slammed into them, and then he understood where he was and winced. He sat up, turning his head on instinct so that he could avoid meeting Hermione's gaze.

"What's got into you?" Hermione spoke quietly. That was the worst of it. When she was really angry, Harry thought in resignation, she never raised her voice. He thought she had read books that told her how to do that on purpose, so she would be more intimidating. "You send Malfoy off in a snit, you make Ron sound as if he's going to splutter himself to death, and you're asleep in the middle of the day. Why is this happening, Harry?"

"I was tired," Harry said, and sat up, rubbing his eyes and hoping that he could make a convincing story out of this. He suspected it would depend on what Ron had said earlier and whether he had been moaning anybody's name. "I came home because there was nothing to do in the office and I had to get that book of Quidditch addresses for Malfoy, and—"

"Bollocks!" Hermione flung the book she was holding to the floor, shutting Harry up in sheer surprise. He had _never _seen her treat books that way, even ones she disagreed with. "It's more than that. It's these dreams, isn't it? Why are they so important? Why are you trying so hard to protect them?'

Harry tensed in spite of himself, but shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about, Hermione," he said. "How can you protect a dream?"

"You can try to prevent it from coming to the attention of someone who would do something about it," Hermione said darkly, and drew her wand.

Harry scrambled backwards across his bed so that he could reach his glasses and his own wand. Hermione paused, shaking her head mournfully at him. "See? You think I'm going to hurt you," she muttered. "I know that you would never think that on your own. These dreams are having some sort of effect on your mind."

"Malfoy already consulted dream experts because he was worried about that," Harry said rashly, deciding that now was the time to plunge ahead, stun Hermione with lots of information, and hopefully escape the consequences for lying. "They all said that my dreams didn't sound dangerous."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You gave him a detailed description of the dreams? Why didn't you do the same thing for me and Ron?'

Harry opened his mouth, and then shut it. "Because I was afraid that you would be an interfering busybody and take the people in my head away from me" didn't sound like a very rational explanation, when he thought about it, and certainly not one that Hermione would readily accept.

"Harry?" Hermione sat down on the chair next to his bed and stared at him with what he could clearly see was worry in her eyes, now that he had his glasses on. "I'm waiting."

Harry winced and tugged his fingers through his hair. He reckoned he was fairly caught, and it would be best to be honest now, so that Hermione wouldn't accuse him later of not having been that way. He didn't want to damage his friendship with her and Ron, not really. And when he thought about it, he was even feeling a bit guilty for the way that he had stormed and shouted and ordered Malfoy out of the house earlier.

"All right, fine," he said softly. "I've been dreaming of a complete, coherent alternate universe, where I'm the barrister for the Malfoys. They've been accused of being Death Eaters, but no one else wants to defend them." He gave her a quick glance; at least her eyes were wide with fascination, and she didn't look as though she would interrupt him with scolding anytime soon. "I wasn't born there. Neville is the Boy-Who-Lived instead, and there's a woman named Discipula who's taken Umbridge's place and has it out for the Malfoys. You work for her," he couldn't help adding.

"_What_?" Hermione spluttered. "That's ridiculous! Why would I do that?"

"Because that other you hates pure-bloods," Harry said. "And because I didn't exist to draw you and Ron together in Gryffindor, I reckon. We never got to fight a troll together."

"Even so," Hermione said, her face pulled tight with disgust. Harry thought she was deeply bothered by her fictional self. She sat with her legs folded beneath her, pulling at her robes, and it was a long time before she shook her head and looked up at him again.

"But why did you have to keep that from us?" she asked. "Recurring dreams aren't unusual, and I would be surprised if you didn't have something like them sometime in your life. Your nightmares from the war were so powerful."

Harry coughed. "Er—these aren't recurring dreams, Hermione. They're a story. They always stop when I wake up and then resume at the exact same time when I go back to sleep. I can talk to people, and influence them, and I keep meeting people who are changed from the ones I know, but in plausible ways. Ron is bored and doesn't feel like a standout because of his brothers. The Malfoys are more bitter about pure-blood prejudice than they are here because worse things happened to them. Draco—"

He stopped, too abruptly. Hermione leaned forwards. "What about Malfoy?"

"Um." Harry picked at his trousers again. "I like him. I'm helping to defend him," he added. "You said that sometimes relationships like that could develop between barristers and clients."

Hermione leaned forwards more, until she seemed like she was in danger of falling off the chair. "Yes, Harry," she said, too sweetly. Harry cringed. "And do you remember what I said was a good thing to do about relationships like those?"

Harry winced. "Um. Not have them?"

"Yes. _Exactly._" Hermione's nostrils flared, and Harry had the idea that she was holding back a long stream of curses that would have made him more defensive than she wanted to deal with. She finally shook her head and settled on, "This is dangerous, Harry. I agree, those don't sound like normal dreams. Maybe Malfoy didn't consult the right experts in dream magic." Her eyes shone with a rapture that said she'd found her next research project. Harry relaxed. She liked research so much that some of the good feeling might spill over onto him, and he'd be forgiven for lying and hiding this.

No such luck. Hermione turned around in the next moment and pinned him with a disconcertingly direct gaze. "So. Exactly _why_ did you think that you had to keep this from us? And why tell Malfoy first?"

"He sort of forced it out of me," Harry mumbled. "And it was obvious that he thought the dreams should stop. He even threatened to tell you. I thought you would agree with him and make me stop dreaming."

"Have you fallen asleep in the middle of the day before?" Hermione asked, voice full of promises of death and destruction if he lied.

"Yes," Harry admitted.

Hermione stared at him, then burst out, "_Harry! _How could you keep something from us that was so dangerous?"

"Because it was dangerous!" Harry yelled back, quite suddenly pressed against the limits of his temper. "And because I think I'm falling in love with Draco, and I knew that you would say I couldn't be in love with someone who only exists in my head!"

There was some more staring on Hermione's part, and some inner reeling on Harry's, although he tried to look calm and strong and stoic for Hermione. Then she turned her head away and lifted her hand, beating the heel of her palm gently against her forehead.

"I'm going to pretend that you didn't say something that idiotic," she said. "I'm going to pretend that you just feel for him what you would feel for anyone you could help. And why did Malfoy get involved?"

"He said something about wanting my attention, and doing something stupid to get it," Harry said weakly. He had a little breathing space, but he knew Hermione would return to the subject of Draco, and he felt irrationally compelled to defend the mere _idea _of him not existing. "I don't know what it was, but he's been involved from the first day. He should stop now," he added. "He wants a place on another Quidditch team, and I gave him the Floo addresses of people he could contact. So he shouldn't have to deal with me again."

Hermione looked at him, and blinked. "You sound unhappy about that."

"I'm not _unhappy _about it," Harry said, aghast. "I just—feel guilty." Hermione rolled her eyes, and he knew she would have said that was nothing new, but he went on before she could, trying to work out his own feelings. It really didn't make sense for him to be upset about this, when he'd been working to get rid of Malfoy in the first place. "I wish that I could have sent him away in some other way. And I wish I could have known what the stupid thing he said he did to get my attention is."

"You've cut the ties with him," Hermione said flatly. "A pity, since I think he might have been able to help us." She stared into his face, and Harry winced. He couldn't help thinking that Hermione would have made a great interrogator if she hadn't chosen to become a barrister. "But you are going to tell me _everything _about these dreams, including everything that you told Malfoy, aren't you, Harry?"

Harry sighed and bowed his head. "Yes, Hermione."

Hermione patted him on the shoulder, and then began her gentle, merciless questioning as to the finer points of all the dreams.

* * *

Harry leaned against his pillow and closed his eyes. He hadn't dreamed last night, at Hermione's insistence; she had given him a potion that wasn't Dreamless Sleep, but similar to it, which simply edited out his need to dream for a night. He felt groggier than if he'd spent the entire time in Draco's world.

He wondered how much of that was due to not having any dreams—he had sometimes felt like this when he woke up after taking Dreamless Sleep, too—and how much came from his anxiety over not seeing Draco. What happened to the dreams on the nights that he was _prevented _from going there? Did they advance without him? Would he melt away in front of Draco's eyes? Would the trial begin, without him there to help it along and make sure that things went well for the Malfoys?

_It's all very well for Hermione to think that it's not real and so it doesn't matter what happens, _Harry thought, opening his eyes and glaring at the book in his hands. _She's not the one who's become close to them and helped them through all of this so far._

The book was the one on dream magic that Malfoy had bought for him at that bookshop the other day. Hermione had insisted that Harry read it and start learning the basic tenets of dream magic. If none of the dream magic experts Malfoy had consulted saw anything wrong with the dreams, she had said inexorably, then Harry would just have to become his own expert.

Harry had tried to argue that that must mean nothing was wrong with the dreams after all, but Hermione had only stared at him until he had to look away.

Now Harry flipped through the book and stared at the words with what he knew was a pout on his face. Hermione had forbidden him from going to the office, sleeping without taking the potion, or taking a nap until he'd read the book. And Harry knew he could have disobeyed her, knew it was his choice, which only made him feel worse.

It felt as though he was betraying Draco to satisfy his friend.

Yet he couldn't betray Hermione either—or Ron, who was starting to come around to Hermione's side of the question on whether Harry was safe from the dreams or not, even though Harry hadn't described them directly to him. Harry sighed and turned to the table of contents. Months of reading through tomes on wizarding law had taught him that that was the place to start.

_The Origin of Magical Dreams…Dreams of Conscience…Nightmares Sent By Enemies…The Foretelling of Omens…_

Harry made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. None of that looked like it would help him. He wished it was as simple as that to prove to Hermione that that meant the dreams were real, a glimpse into another universe, not—dreams.

But Harry did have to admit that it was strange that they had started so suddenly, and that they felt real in a way that not even the visions from Voldemort had. Or in a different way than the visions from Voldemort, perhaps. There, Harry had never had a doubt that he was watching something that took place somewhere in his own reality. The feel, the atmosphere, of them was the same.

When he dreamed of Draco and his world, it was as if Harry was far from his body, acting in that world like a spirit other people could see and hear and touch. It would explain why he never seemed to get hungry or tired there, although he could eat the food.

A little more interested now in what the dreams might mean, since that was a difference he hadn't noticed before, Harry turned back to the book and decided that he might as well start with the chapter on nightmares. He flipped to it.

The pages turned unnaturally, and then the book flopped open in the middle of the nightmares chapter. Harry blinked. Had someone picked it up from the shelves already and spent enough time reading it to crack the binding in that particular spot? He felt obscurely outraged, as though Malfoy had spent his Galleons on something worthless.

_Not that he deserves that outrage, when he was probably the one who stole my Galleons so that I wouldn't have the money to pay Nibbs in the first place, _Harry told himself.

He looked more fully at the place of the cracked binding, and then discovered that it wasn't a crack at all. Instead, a slender card lay there, made of what looked like some stiff parchment. Frowning, Harry took it out.

The card was completely white, a blank and dead-looking white, except for the silver handwriting that curved elegantly over it. Harry knew he had seen that handwriting before, and placed it after a moment. It was Malfoy's.

_I need you to know what I did. I never meant to cause this. I'm sorry. I cast the incantation _Coacto Curationem _on you. Ask Granger; she should know what it means. But I never thought it would have an effect like this, which is listed nowhere in the literature. I'm sorry._

Not sorry enough, Harry noted, his heart beating slowly, to tell him what the bloody spell actually _meant_.

But he didn't need to wait for Hermione, who had gone out to meet with a potential client. He had a Latin dictionary on his shelf, bought with the ridiculously ambitious idea of teaching himself the language and becoming more of a spell expert than he was right now, especially with some of the obscure legal incantations. He seized it and began to turn through it, a lot more urgently than he had with the book on dream magic.

Not that he got much further, much faster. His hands were shaking.

_Coacto—_yes, fine, there it was. It meant to compel, to force, something like that. And Harry suspected that he already knew what _Curationem_ meant, but he still looked it up.

_I compel your attention. That has to be it._

Nothing in that incantation to explain the dreams, but Malfoy's card sure as fuck implied there was a connection, and it would fit very well with the stupid thing he had claimed to have done so that Harry would pay more attention to him.

_Nothing to explain the dreams—unless that's the reason I'm falling in love with Draco._

Harry was on his feet in the next moment, Latin dictionary and dream magic book tossed on the bed, wand in his hand, hair almost bristling off his head with the wild magic as he stalked towards the door.

_Sorry, Hermione. But I think having a little talk with Malfoy is more important than finishing that book right now._


	17. All Changing

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Seventeen—All Changing_

"Well, where _is_ he?"

The owner of the pitch that they had practiced on was a hefty man with a long black beard who had a habit of holding his wand in his hand as if he expected someone to attack any minute. He had stared at Harry a bit, but hadn't been cringingly in awe of him when he first started asking questions. Harry was starting to wish he had been. It would have got him more results than this stubborn wall of silence.

"What makes you think that I know?" The wizard leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers through his beard, and gave Harry a threatening enough glare that he was tempted to draw his own wand.

But that would do no good, so he took a deep breath instead and tried to speak calmly and rationally. "I know that he used to rent this pitch a lot. I thought he might have been by here recently."

The owner studied him with a bit more interest, then tilted his chair further back and put his feet up on his desk. "What did he do to you? Still a Death Eater, is he? I probably shouldn't have trusted him with the pitch, but I thought, well, his money's as good as anyone else's."

It crossed Harry's mind to ask what crimes this man thought Malfoy could commit with spells cast on a Quidditch pitch, but he refused to ask. What he wanted was to find Malfoy, not engage in unnecessary conversations with people who didn't need to know his business and apparently couldn't help him anyway.

"Never mind," he said, and turned his back.

"You might try his house," the man told Harry's back. "It's the first thing _I _would have done, rather than accosting a decent wizard who's just trying to make a living."

Harry snarled over his shoulder, but managed to keep it to a sound without words. He didn't want to start a debate with this idiot, either. He stepped outside the owner's office and stood there with his arms folded around himself. A chill breeze was blowing, and although he could easily have cast a Warming Charm, the wind fit his mood enough at the moment that he wanted to feel it.

He had already been to the Manor. He had come here as a second-best choice. Now that Malfoy had quit his team, Harry could no longer be sure of finding him at their practices or pitch. He had been sure Malfoy was home, because, well, why wouldn't he be?

_Perhaps I should wait for him to find me. He seems to have a particular genius for doing that._

But Harry shook his head in the next instant. No, he wanted to find Malfoy, and he wanted to find him _now_. Passionate anger pumped through his veins still, but it had been joined by a sourer, redder remnant as he thought of all the fuss Malfoy had made about the dreams and their mysterious origin, when all the while he had known perfectly well where they came from.

_Did he think I would never find out? But then, why write that apology? Why cast the spell in the first place? Wasn't it enough for him that he could have come and talked to me, and I might have paid attention?_

Harry rolled his shoulders as he thought about that one. It was possible that he _wouldn't _have paid attention, come to that. He remembered how reluctant he had been to agree to practice Quidditch with Malfoy. Hermione had been the one to convince him more than Malfoy had, he thought. But ultimately, he had agreed.

_Perhaps the dreams really were an unanticipated consequence. But he still could have _told _me, the first time he realized I was having them._

Harry shook his head. In the end, none of those thoughts lessened his urge to make Malfoy pay. He was going to _confess_, and Harry was going to yell at him, and he was going to understand that it was no wonder they couldn't ever be friends, that it had been foolish to think of it in the first place. They couldn't trust each other, and they only did damage when they were near each other.

At least that explained some of Malfoy's volatility. He had probably been wondering when Harry would find out, and what his reaction would be.

_He had enough sense to realize it would be bad, but not enough sense to refrain from casting that spell in the first place. What would have happened if it _had _worked? Would he have refused to ever tell me?_

Harry gritted his teeth and raised his wand to cast a tracking spell. He needed to know the answers to this too much, so he would hunt Malfoy down if he had to and then get the answers out of him.

And then he could walk away, secure in the knowledge that Malfoy understood how bad they were for each other and that it would never work out.

Safe to go back to Draco.

_Remember that he might not be real, _his brain said in Hermione's voice. _Now that you know this, can you think he is?_

Harry gritted his teeth and cast his spell.

* * *

"Potter." Malfoy's voice was flat and discouraging, and he leaned his face around the side of his door as though he assumed Harry would try to shove his way through. Or maybe he had a top-secret potion brewing in that room, Harry thought. He didn't really know, and he didn't really care, not when his blood was still seething with rebellion and resentment. "Why are you here? I'd thought I might be untroubled by you in my private home, at least."

Harry took a minute to look at the building again. It was the same kind of building that he and Hermione had their office in, located at the border of Muggle and wizarding London, old and anonymous and safe. Harry had to admit that he would have walked past it without a second glance if his tracking spell hadn't tugged him here. It didn't seem Malfoy's style.

But the fact remained that he'd found Malfoy, and he wasn't about to give up and go quietly away when the arsehole had done this to him. So Harry leaned forwards, glared, and then said, "I found that little note you left."

Malfoy's eyes widened, and for a moment he actually looked as if he might bolt. Harry held in his laughter with an effort. Of course, Malfoy had probably left the note assuming that Harry would never find it, or as a way to salve his conscience—which probably didn't sting him very often—without thinking about the consequences.

"I didn't think you would find out about that." Malfoy's voice was very small, and he kept his gaze on the ground as though it would spring up and attack him any moment. Then he seemed to steel himself, and met Harry's gaze again. "But you've already made it clear that you want nothing to do with me, so I don't see why it makes any difference."

He started to shut the door, and Harry, befuddled, almost let him get away with it. Then he snapped his foot out and stuck it in the door. Malfoy shut it anyway, on his toes. Harry took great delight in yelping aloud. He'd wager anything that Malfoy didn't want his neighbors to find out he had the Chosen One on his porch and was mistreating him.

Sure enough, Malfoy yanked the door open again, his expression close to panicked. "What the fuck do you _want_?" he snarled.

"To talk." Harry met his eye once, and then shoved past him into the flat. Malfoy let him pass, though he stood with his arms folded and a permanent scowl on his face that made Harry want to snort.

Malfoy's flat was a largely neutral place, decorated in smooth greys and whites that made Harry long to introduce a bit of color, whether that was by smashing his fist into Malfoy's jaw or spitting on the floor. He whirled around the moment he was inside, making sure that he had his wand in his fist. He didn't know if Malfoy would actually curse him or not, but he knew that he wasn't going to take any chances on getting hurt.

Malfoy didn't have his wand drawn. Malfoy was watching him with his forehead wrinkled, as if trying to figure out why Harry _thought _he would be cursed. Harry shook his head. "Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Cast the spell?" Malfoy sneered at him mildly. "My note should have told you that. I wanted your attention, and I knew you would do nothing but ignore me if I asked for it in any ordinary way."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes. That's why _asking _later didn't work, and I never practiced with you at all."

"You did it reluctantly." Malfoy prowled closer, looking incensed. His shoulders were tense, his fingers closed in one another. Still not reaching for his wand, Harry noticed. Maybe he wanted a physical fight. "You complained all the time about what a nuisance it was, and you were glad to get rid of me!" His voice had risen by the end, and he looked as if he would be happy to pound Harry to bits.

"Because you were a bloody nuisance," Harry hissed. "And because you lied to me about what you knew about these dreams, and plagued me about them all the time when you knew perfectly good and well why they'd started!"

"You only know that _now_," Malfoy said, his voice slicing, sharp as ice. "You hated me poking into your life and acting concerned about you at the time, even though you didn't know what I'd done."

"I sensed something off about you," Harry insisted. He couldn't let Malfoy get the moral upper hand. That wouldn't do at all, not when _he _was the one who had cursed Harry in the first place and put them into this bloody situation. "That's the reason why I kept my distance! Well, that and the fact that you changed moods more often than a hormonal Crup," he felt compelled to add.

"I was guilty, you prick," Malfoy snapped. He was pacing in a circle now, glaring at Harry from the corner of one eye, as though he assumed Harry would suddenly grow too clever for him and lash at him from the side. Harry sneered at him. Attacking from behind was only for faithless idiots like _him_. "And I was worried. And I wondered what would happen when you found out, even though I still wanted your friendship and so I kept trying for it."

"That's another thing," Harry said, deciding that he might as well voice all his disappointments at once, because the chances that he would get to do it again were slim. Fuck, he couldn't imagine seeing Malfoy again once he walked out this door. "Is it friendship or fucking you wanted?"

"Friendship first," Malfoy said. "I told you that. I got upset when it didn't work, and I snapped at you. And then sometimes you acted so stupid about the dreams that I had to question whether I really wanted you."

"That's pretty fucking rich," Harry scoffed, when he could get his breath back from the sheer surprise that had landed on him, "since you were the one who caused those dreams in the first place."

"I still don't know how," Malfoy said, and now he was glaring at Harry as if it was his fault. "Trust you to have an unusual reaction to everything! That spell should have either worked or failed completely. I thought it had failed because it's like the Imperius Curse, and I remember hearing in fourth year that you were immune to that—"

"You used a spell that you think is like the Imperius Curse to get me to pay attention," Harry repeated, unable to believe his ears. "And then you wonder why in the world I'm angry at you?"

"If you hadn't acted like a prick and at least listened to me, then none of this would have happened!" Malfoy waved his arms like a windmill's blades. "We would have become friends, or I would have figured out that I don't want anything to do with you and moved on. I can't make a decision as long as you're this _frustrating!_"

Harry barked out a laugh. "You're talking about yourself," he said, when the laughter would let him speak. "You _realize _that, don't you? The frustration that I felt from you was that you wouldn't make up your mind, or say what you wanted, and you changed your approach ten times a day. Whatever frustration I caused you, it can't compare to _that_."

"How in the world do you know what it can compare to?" Malfoy growled, and his eyes were practically red. He took a step closer, and then stopped in place, rocking slightly, his hands clasped together behind his back, as though he was afraid that he would strangle Harry if he came any closer. _I'd like to see him try, _Harry thought, and tightened his grip on his wand.

"You can never see anything beyond the end of your own nose," Malfoy said, after a few moments of gulping breath and charged silence. "You'll never look at me just because you wouldn't have looked at me in Hogwarts. You're still the child that you always were, and I should have seen that and never longed for you."

The vicious bitterness in those last words propelled Harry into action. He wasn't going to stand there and agree with what Malfoy said about him, which was what silence would imply. "Meanwhile, you're the man that I always thought you were, just selfish in different ways," he said scornfully. "It's no wonder that I prefer Draco over you."

Malfoy's eyes widened, and he reeled back a step as though Harry had hit him. Harry watched him with his breath quickening. _Yes, I want him to understand what he did. The price that I'm going to have to pay because _he _couldn't just fucking _ask.

"He's not real," Malfoy said after a moment, his voice numb. He reached out and put a hand on the edge of a nearby table, apparently to hold himself up.

Harry would have felt bad about that if he wasn't so angry. As it was, his temper was enough to shelter him from any sorrow. He snorted. "Yes, but you gave me the chance to meet him. And I can obviously like _some _version of you. So whose fault is it that you never once became someone I could like?"

Then Harry listened to the words he was saying, and winced. _Shit. I reckon I can feel bad about what I'm saying after all._

Malfoy closed his eyes. "You should just leave," he whispered. His face was white. "I should have never let you in or listened to you in the first place."

"Listen," Harry said, deciding that he had to explain himself before he retreated. Hermione would make him justify his actions later, and this was the only way that Harry could. "I know now that Draco's not real. But I still prefer him to you because he's _simple. _He's _honest_. He doesn't keep saying that he wants one thing and then changing his mind. And I know that he would never curse me."

"Because he's _not real_." Malfoy's voice was slow and patient. "Besides, Potter, have you once thought that you'll need my help to remove this curse?"

Harry jerked back. "Why would I trust you near me again with a wand?"

"Shut up," Malfoy said, and his voice was blank, almost neutral, except for the sheer force of his words. He turned so that he was staring at the wall and spoke as if to a stranger. "We need to help each other. I need to make sure that I haven't permanently hurt you. You need me because it might be something about the connection between our wands or the desires I had when casting the spell that made your dreams take this form. We need to help each other," he repeated, and by the end of the speech, he even sounded as though he believed that.

Harry shook his head. Everything had got all twisted around, he thought. When he came here, he was going to throw Malfoy out of his life, and yell at him, and Malfoy would understand what he'd done wrong and slink away. And he had felt angry. He missed the comforting pull of his anger, and wanted it back.

"I don't think we need to," Harry said. "Hermione knows now, and she's helping me. We'll be able to reach the end goal."

Malfoy gave him a quick, unreadable glance. "Good," he said. "That makes one less threat that I can hold over your head, and I think we should work together as honestly as possible. And I'm glad to see that you have more good sense than I thought possible for someone who wants to live in dreams."

"You still don't need to help me," Harry said. "Hermione's a better researcher—" He snapped his jaws shut again, and winced. There was that bloody guilt, always popping up where it was least wanted and poking him in vulnerable places.

"I don't care, frankly," Malfoy said. "You can think of this as my apology. And you might finally be able to see me for who I am if I help you."

"Why is that so important to you?" Harry had to ask. "I've rejected you, I've insulted you, and we fought on opposite sides of a war. That ought to have been enough to destroy any obsession you had with me. You've seen me at my worst, and you should know that I'm no friend for you."

Malfoy's mouth relaxed into a faint smile. For a moment, he stood there, looking at Harry, and Harry had to admit that he looked more handsome than he had seen him yet with his hands on his hips and strength in his eyes. He reminded Harry of someone, in fact, but it took a moment of fumbling in the back of his mind before Harry knew who it was.

_He reminds me of me._

"I don't let go of what I want without a fight," Malfoy said. "One of the reasons that I was acting so erratically around you—"

"Among all the other reasons," Harry had to add.

Malfoy inclined his head in a gesture that didn't admit he was right or wrong, just acknowledged the existence of his words, and went on. "Was that I knew, although I wouldn't admit it consciously, that you would find out about the note and I was trying to convince myself to let go before you could slap me with another rejection. I didn't manage to. I still want you. No, I don't know why. It's probably not the most healthy relationship in the world. But if anything can change my mind, it's constant exposure to you. If _that _doesn't do it, then I'll know that this really is obsession, or love, or whatever you want to call it."

"Not love," Harry said quickly. He couldn't imagine it being love. Why in the world would it be?

Malfoy shrugged at him, a gesture of much the same sort as the inclination of his head before. "So this is as much for me as for you."

"I still need to give you permission, though," Harry had to point out. "It's not as though you can go about doing whatever you like without my permission."

Malfoy snorted softly, but his eyes shone now as if he was enjoying the challenge. "So. Give it to me."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I told you, why should I trust you around me with a wand? And feeling sorry for you doesn't mean that I have to give you access to me."

Malfoy laughed outright. "You're still stubborn, I see. Anyone else would leap at the chance to work with the person who had cursed them, just in case they knew something special about the spell. It's a rare opportunity, after all."

"What were your motives for casting that spell?" Harry had to ask. "Why not just come to me, tell me what was going on, and then ask me to see where friendship with you went? That's what you ended up doing anyway."

Malfoy's laughter fell away, and he stared at Harry with a bone mask for an expression, too bare and naked and honest. Harry winced and glanced away.

"Maybe you can be that courageous about your deepest emotions," Malfoy whispered. "I can't."

Harry took a large breath and closed his eyes. It seemed he _did _have the chance to work with Malfoy, whether or not he wanted it. The biggest problem was whether he was going to take it.

On the one hand, he didn't want to. He wanted Malfoy as far away from him as possible, and he wanted to show the git that nothing good would come from cursing Harry in the first place. Who knew but that he would do it again because the first time had worked out for him and he wasn't going to suffer the consequences for it?

On the other hand, hadn't he already suffered the consequences? They might not be large consequences as far as Harry's personal belief system went, but they obviously mattered to Malfoy. Harry couldn't see the expression on his face and doubt that.

He sighed and looked back at Malfoy, who at least looked a bit less vulnerable than he had before. "Fine. You can work with me and Hermione to—make sure the dreams don't have an evil origin, or whatever it is, exactly, that you want to do. But I want you to promise that you'll let me rescue the Draco in the dreams first."

Malfoy looked at him with what seemed to be unfeigned disgust. "I don't see how you can, if he's as helpless as you've told me," he muttered, and his words sparked on the edge, metallic with jealousy.

"He needs someone to defend him in his trial," Harry said. "And his parents, too. I want to do that."

Malfoy gave an elaborate yawn and turned to stare at the far wall. "Why should I care when he doesn't exist? Why do _you_ care when he doesn't exist?" He turned his head and peered at Harry over his shoulder, as though wondering why he hadn't agreed already and praised Malfoy's wonderful wisdom. "You know that he isn't real now. You can't doubt it, not when you also believe that I caused the dreams by casting that spell on you. Why care?"

Harry hesitated. The immediate answer that had jumped to mind was one he wouldn't have minded sharing with Hermione or Ron, but Malfoy was different.

Malfoy seemed to see something of that in his face, because he immediately turned away. "We'll work together," he said. "But it's more than obvious that you'll never trust me."

"Fine," Harry said, trying to ignore the way the word sounded as if it was wrenched from him. "I just—Malfoy, I didn't want to stay an Auror because I knew they would never let me fight, all right? They would never let the Chosen One risk himself. I decided to become a barrister because it was a way that I could help people and undertake some amount of risk, although it wasn't as direct as becoming an Auror. And being Draco's barrister—it's a risk, too. I knew from the beginning that something was abnormal about these dreams, but that only made them more attractive to me. It only made me want them to continue, because it made me feel alive again in a way that studying law books didn't."

Malfoy stared at him in open disbelief. Then he said, "I never knew that you liked to risk your life that much."

Harry smiled a bit. He knew the way Malfoy's jaw had hung open didn't come from that. "I know," he said. "But now you do. Do you still want to be around me?"

Malfoy smiled back and stepped up to him. Before Harry knew what he was doing, Malfoy had taken his wrist in a clasping hand and leaned near. His lips brushed teasingly against Harry's ear, sending tingles and jolts of energy through him.

"I do," he breathed. "Maybe I can convince you that there's more than enough risk associated with _me_."

Harry was still flushed several minutes after Malfoy released him.


	18. Adjusting for Reality

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eighteen—Adjusting for Reality_

"Mr. Evans. The trial will begin soon."

Harry managed to control his start, and nodded to Discipula. He had thought she would say something like that, which meant she hadn't managed to catch him off-guard. "Very well," he said, shuffling the parchments through his hand and checking to make sure that his notes from Woburn as well as the responding letters from both McGonagall and Wellworth were there. "I'll call my witnesses."

"Your witnesses, plural?" Discipula considered him with the same sort of skepticism that he had seen from other people when he said that he wanted to become a barrister in the first place. "You have more than one?"

Harry grinned at her. He knew it was probably much too challenging a grin for the un-confrontational persona he'd been trying to show her lately, but sod that. No matter how he behaved, she seemed to think that he was an enemy, and behaving honestly had always had the greatest appeal for Harry.

_Well, most of the time, _he amended, remembering the way that the Dursleys had shown their honest loathing of him.

"Yes," he said. "A character witness for each person I'm defending. I thought it best, since this whole trial is a matter of character and personality in the first place. Witnesses _do _sometimes change their stories, don't they?"

Discipula was still, cocking her head so that she could look at him more narrowly. Then she nodded. "It happens more often than we think, in fact," she said. "And you should consider that it is common to all trials and all _sides _of trials, Mr. Evans."

Harry nodded and smiled and bowed, and then walked into the building that he was staying in, which he reckoned he should call his inn, shaking his head. For someone who had maintained political control for so many years, Discipula seemed uncertain about how to intimidate people.

_Or maybe she can intimidate people who know her and believe in the same things she does more easily, _Harry thought, deciding that it might be an advantage not to be of this world.

Ron was waiting for him, leaning against the counter on the ground floor of the inn and studying him with undisguised curiosity. Harry looked around, and found no one else nearby, as usual. He wondered if they were like him, barely spending any time here because they had business to attend to, or if they simply came and went when he wasn't around. Ron was presumably making a living somehow.

"I heard what you said," Ron murmured to him. "Brave. But foolish."

"Why?" Harry glanced around again and, as usual, didn't see the entrance to a separate eating room, so he turned back to Ron. "I'd like a few sandwiches and at least some cheese, if you can do that."

Ron nodded and shrugged at the same time, as if to convey that it would take up so little of his time or skill that he could go on talking to Harry. Sure enough, when he turned around to Summon the tray of food, he kept his head mostly turned to Harry and his mouth going. "There are people who've lost their positions in the Ministry, trying to oppose or manipulate Discipula."

Harry laughed. "I have no position in the Ministry to lose." It was an effort not to say "_your_ Ministry." Malfoy's presence in the research that Harry and Hermione had begun meant that he was thinking more about the difference between worlds now than he used to.

He grimaced now, though, and forced the idea away. The important thing while he was in the dreams was the trials.

Ron faced him fully as the tray of sandwiches and several pieces of some white cheese landed on the counter. Harry nodded and picked it up. He had intended to take it up to his room, but Ron continued talking and kept him there.

"She doesn't like to be opposed, either, and to face someone she might not be able to hurt. Keep that in mind. She might lash out harder if she's afraid of you."

Harry shook his head in mild exasperation. "I still don't know why she _should _be. The only thing that matters to me is to see justice done. If one group of Death Eaters walks free, does that matter so much to her?"

"That," Ron said, "is a really good question."

Harry rolled his eyes and retreated to his room, where he devoured all the sandwiches before he settled down to revising his notes. He knew the basics of courtroom procedure, of course, had known them for years, but he didn't know who would be opposing him, and a lot of what Hermione—_his _Hermione—had taught him was based on knowing the tactics of certain opposing barristers who had notorious arguments they favored.

Well, he couldn't count on that. So he would have to stay as close to the facts as he could—the facts that his witnesses were willing to offer, anyway—and in the meantime, try to cast a bit of doubt on the purity of Discipula's motives in allowing the Malfoys to die without representation or a proper trial.

Of course, it would help if _he _had had any idea why she would want to do such a thing.

He paused, then shook his head. Hermione would have a choice lecture to give him on how stupid he was for not working out a list of motivations that Discipula could have. They did it all the time when Hermione gave him historical cases and asked him to try and work out the motives of the judges who had made a certain decision, the barristers who had made certain arguments, or the criminals who had committed a certain crime before he looked up the case for himself.

He began to write out what he considered possible motives. Not likely ones, because he still didn't think that he knew Discipula well enough to say that. But there were all sorts of reasons that someone might want to keep the Malfoy trial from coming to a logical conclusion and hurry them into execution instead. So, what were they?

_Money_. It was astonishing how many crimes were caused by money, in one way or another. Before he began his training as a barrister, Harry had thought most crimes in the wizarding world came down to blood feuds and whose ancestors had done which wrong to whose; it certainly seemed like that was all the pure-bloods he had known in Hogwarts or Auror training talked about. But no, money was the main motive. People killed, lied, schemed, and mutilated to possess it.

But in this case, while Discipula didn't seem rich, she didn't seem poor, either. And Harry thought he would have heard someone mention it by now if Discipula had been hovering on the edge of poverty or depended on the Galleons the Ministry paid her to keep her alive. Skeeter couldn't have resisted tackling it in her exposés. Money remained a possibility, but not in the usual fashion, especially since Harry doubted that Discipula stood to inherit the Malfoys' fortune.

On the other hand, hadn't Lucius said something the other day about the Galleons from dead pure-blood families going to the Ministry? Harry circled the word and drew a large question mark next to it.

_Let's see. What else?_

Personal hatred was also a motivation; Harry had read about historical cases that came from that, too. But once again, none of the Malfoys seemed to have known what they could have done to Discipula to warrant what she had done to them in return. And she didn't strike Harry as someone who was in the habit of making large, dramatic gestures that were out of all proportion to the original offense.

Draco was an unlikely offender, in any case, being still a schoolboy during the time that Discipula was rising to power. That meant it most likely had to be Narcissa or Lucius. Harry wrote down both their names and sat back, trying to think what they could be lying about to him.

Unfortunately, the answer that came to mind was _everything_.

Harry grimaced, shook his head, and set the personal hatred idea aside with another question mark drawn around it for now. It could very well be true, but he couldn't _say _it was without more confirmation from one of the parties involved, and he didn't think he would get it unless Draco suddenly remembered something about his parents' interaction with Discipula that he had forgotten to tell Harry so far.

Draco…

Harry sighed. He hadn't got to see Draco in what felt like far too long, after Hermione had fed him that potion that edited the dreams and then he'd had to spend time preparing for the trial. He hoped that he would get back to him tomorrow, or later tonight; he never had any notion of how long the dreams were going to last.

For now, though, he should pay attention to his list. Among other things, he wanted to show Hermione and Malfoy that he could focus on the business of being a barrister, not just his "obsession" with Draco.

Discipula might simply be using the Malfoy trial to gain political power, though Harry wasn't sure what more she could want. How would executing the Malfoys help her become Minister, for example? But he still didn't understand everything about this strange universe, especially how everyone could accept Neville as the Boy-Who-Lived when they didn't seem to know how he had killed Voldemort, so he wrote the notion down.

Blackmail? Could the Malfoys know something about Discipula that she didn't want anyone else to know? Harry added that motivation to the list, too, though he was more doubtful about it. He couldn't see why Lucius wouldn't have used the knowledge already to get out of prison, or at least spare himself. (He was more doubtful that Lucius would care about sparing his wife and son).

The last motivation he could think of was that Discipula wouldn't have wanted to execute the Malfoys if she was really in control, but had essentially been forced into taking this position because so many other people in the wizarding world wanted them dead. Harry snorted as he added three question marks next to that one. Discipula could _play _the earnest, concerned, moral woman cowed by public pressure all she wanted; he didn't believe it for an instant.

He sat back and studied his list. As yet, he had no idea which one was most likely to be true. It could also be a combination, which he always hated, because it pushed the possibilities in so many directions that he felt stupid when he couldn't mentally keep track of them all.

He started to stand. It wasn't "cheating" if he went back to Draco now and started speaking to him, urging him gently to remember any detail about Discipula that he might have missed. Perhaps he could even set up a spell to ensure that they talked in a bubble of silence; Draco might speak more freely with the assurance that his parents couldn't hear him and contradict him.

Then the room wavered and darkened around him. Harry clutched instinctively at the table in front of him and looked around wildly, expecting an attack, but there was nothing except the same room, only dimmer.

It could only mean that Hermione and Malfoy were calling him back to the world they thought was the only one. Harry bowed his head and lashed out with his will in clumsy, uncoordinated movements, not sure what he was doing, only sure that he wanted to keep the dream and they weren't letting him.

_No! Stop—_

But the dream faded relentlessly, until Harry was drifting in a light doze from which he had no choice but to awaken.

* * *

"I agree that it's disturbing."

Those were the first words Harry heard when he opened his eyes, which he thought was excuse enough for not being in the best mood. He rolled over, opened his eyes, and glared at Hermione, who stood beside his bed with a notebook in her hands.

She nodded to show him that she knew he was awake, and then went back to consulting the notes. "The twitching hands and the rapidly moving eyes are there," she said. "And more than once I heard him grunt or saw him flinch as if he had been hit. Did you see the same thing, Malfoy?"

Harry resisted the urge to bury his head in his arms. He had told Hermione about Malfoy's causing the dreams in the first place with trepidation, because he had been afraid that she would be so angry that there would be no way to persuade her to work with him. Instead, after an initial five minutes of yelling at Malfoy that he was stupid and should never be allowed around Harry again and that she thought his pretense of friendship with the Quidditch training was pathetic, Hermione had become too interested in Harry's unusual reaction to the spell to scold Malfoy further. She started speaking to him as though he was someone who could _help_ her, instead, and compared notes with him on the dream magic that he had already looked up and she had just started to study.

Harry turned to look at Malfoy instead. He was sitting in a chair, and he had his own book of notes in front of him, in the form of a ledger stuffed with blank parchment-or scribbled parchment, Harry saw with some dread. Had the git really taken that many notes just while Harry had his short nap?

"Yes, I saw all of that," Malfoy said. "Did you notice a pattern in the grunts? At one point, I counted them as four minutes apart, but they started moving closer together as the dream progressed."

"Yes." Hermione made a sharp motion with her quill; Harry had to duck as the ink flew. "That's the reason I suggested that we wake him up. It sounded as though he were being hurt, and I don't want _that _to happen." She gave Harry a long, worried look, and tapped the quill against her notes. "You really have no idea what you're dealing with in these dreams, Harry. You should have told me about them right away."

Harry grimaced and decided that he might as well try to use one of the things she'd been talking about before he went to sleep against her. "I think you can understand why I didn't. They're addictive, or so you mentioned. I wanted to keep having them, and I _knew _that you would try to take them away."

Malfoy coughed. Harry turned over to glare at him, and Malfoy sighed. "Direct your anger at me if anywhere, Harry. I'm the one who caused this, and I'm the one who should have told you so when I saw the way they were affecting you."

Harry shook his head, exasperated. "And what's that way? So far, all you've reported are a few movements and sounds in my sleep, which I could be doing all the time _anyway_." There was Ron's report of hearing Harry call out Draco's name, too, but he didn't know if Hermione had told Malfoy about that.

"It's still serious," Malfoy said. "Dreams this strong and continuous always are."

Harry groaned. "Then, please, tell me _why_," he said. "What does the dream magic theory say about them? You told me that you'd been to experts, and they all told you the dreams were harmless," he remembered belatedly. "So I understand why you want to study this, but I don't understand why you're convinced they're dangerous."

"Actually," Hermione said, in that bright, clear, cold voice that Harry had learned to cringe from in terror, "I'd be interested in knowing the same thing. If the experts seemed to feel that the dreams weren't caused by a spell-"

Malfoy cursed and sighed. "I didn't dare tell them all the circumstances of the case," he admitted grudgingly. "I thought for certain they'd figure out _I'd _cast the original spell. And I didn't know much about the dreams then, only what Harry told me."

Harry moved in irritation. He didn't know why, but he didn't like it when Malfoy called him by his first name. It felt like an intimate caress across bare skin that he hadn't earned the right to.

_Or maybe I like it too much._

Harry rubbed at his eyes. He, Malfoy, and Hermione had been working together for only a few days to try and learn the origin of the dreams, and already his thoughts were confusing him and driving him mad.

Malfoy wasn't terrible in close quarters. Harry could even admit that he found some of the attention flattering.

But he also couldn't forget that Malfoy had cast the spell on him in the first place, and that he didn't understand Malfoy's obsession. _He _wouldn't take up with someone who had treated him as horribly as Malfoy claimed that Harry had treated him.

"I see," Hermione said, with a heavy, significant glance that cheered Harry up a bit, as it reminded him that she could be annoyed with other people. "Perhaps you should go back to these experts and admit that you lied, and then ask them about the case with all the details in the proper places?"

"Mentioning Harry's name?" Malfoy stared at her. "Wouldn't that give him even more publicity that he didn't want?"

_He actually noticed that? _Harry blinked and added his voice to the chorus before Hermione could bowl Malfoy over unassisted. "Yes, I think he has to keep my name out of it, Hermione. There's no reason that would matter."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "And if the experts are missing something because these dreams happened thanks to your curse scar, or you walking to your death-what you thought was your death-in the Forbidden Forest?"

Malfoy whipped around and stared at him. Harry could guess why. He hissed at Hermione, but she didn't look impressed, as she usually didn't. She just stood there, quill poised, and faced him down with all the majesty of logic.

Harry finally nodded. "Yeah, all right. But can we at least speak to experts on the Continent, who might be less fascinated by the chance to make Harry Bloody Potter into an experiment? I think Malfoy said the best ones are on the Continent, anyway, and not in Britain."

"Not all of them," Malfoy said. "But enough diversity of opinions exists, especially in France and Spain, that I don't think we need consult anyone who might leak your name back." He was studying Harry with bright eyes, although Harry didn't know why. Perhaps he had done something nice without noticing it. Just paying attention to him might count as "nice" in Malfoy's personal universe.

Then Malfoy blinked, perhaps because he had noticed Harry staring at him, and seemed to become more professional. "We also need to think about how the spell might have interacted with special qualities in Harry's mind to make these dreams arise in the first place," he muttered, and busied himself with staring into his notes as if they would tell him the answer.

"Tell us more about the spell," Hermione said. "If it had worked as it normally should have, what would be the effect on Harry's mind?"

"He would have started thinking about me more often," Malfoy said, with the kind of calm assurance that Harry associated with having used the spell before, instead of just having memorized a description in a book. He scowled and told himself that he_ could _be a little more generous with his suspicions; Malfoy was potentially giving up a lot to help him. Maybe. "He would have found himself curious about me, and seeking me out-but not in such a way that it would violate his usual habits or his character. I would have known why, of course, and watched for him, and started conversations that were about relatively neutral topics, like Quidditch. I would have made sure not to antagonize him."

"And you could have done all that without the spell," Hermione said softly. "Simply by speaking to him." She regarded Malfoy with a mixture of pity and wonder that Harry knew would probably make him uncomfortable, and seemed to if the way he glanced away and straightened his robe collar was any indication.

"I did try," Malfoy said, so softly that Harry wondered if Hermione could make out all the words. "He never seemed to glance at him. The few times I saw him after the trial, he stared straight past me, or walked away from me."

"Because I was _trying _not to get into an argument," Harry said, when Hermione turned to him. "How was I to know that he sincerely wanted to be friends? If he does now," he couldn't help but add. "Someone who turns to that kind of spell-"

"It was wrong," Malfoy said with immense dignity.

Harry blinked. "Excuse me?" he echoed, but was aware of the way that Hermione put her hand on his sleeve. He bit his tongue and tried to stay calm when he spoke. "What do you mean?"

"It was wrong to cast that spell on you," Malfoy said, staring at Harry as if he thought that that would unlock some door in Harry's head by which the words could enter his brain. "Yes, I should have asked. But I was bloody terrified and humiliated after my earlier attempts didn't work, all right? But I should have asked," he tacked onto the end, as if he'd realized that Harry might not be that impressed by a self-justifying apology.

Harry shook his head slightly. "I-all right," he said. "Fine. But how was I supposed to know that you just wanted to talk when you tried? You even _told _me that I should avoid him," he added, turning to Hermione.

Hermione looked uncomfortable enough herself that Harry wondered if she didn't have any good answer for a problem like this, either, although he wanted to think she did. "I don't think we should blame each other for what happened in the past," she finally said. "It's obvious that we all misunderstood each other, and that things would have been easier if we talked. But we can't alter that. We can only go ahead and try to understand what's been happening to Harry." She nodded, apparently satisfied with that.

Malfoy sighed and bowed his head. "Yeah," he said. "We should."

Harry eyed him sideways. He didn't know that he would trust the git even with Hermione's say-so; it smacked too much of just allowing Malfoy to get away with things, the way that had seemed to happen so often in school with Snape and the Slytherins. And Malfoy hadn't apologized until just now. Why should he get the same kind of blanket understanding that Harry was willing to extend towards the Slytherins in general who had been pressed into fighting for Voldemort because their families did?

_He did apologize, though. And fighting for Voldemort was worse than casting this spell on you, so you should be able to forgive one if you can forgive the other._

_Maybe, _Harry conceded, and decided that they should all return to the original topic of conversation before they became caught up in self-loathing. "All right. So what kind of interaction do you think a spell like that could have with my mind, Hermione? How are the dreams like it?"

"Well, the addictive nature of them certainly is," Hermione said, restored in a moment to her comfort zone. "You're thinking about Draco all the time, whether you've recently seen him or not." She stared at Harry, who nodded reluctantly. "And the dreams are a way to visit him, so you've been going to sleep more often and getting upset when you took the potion that prevented you from dreaming."

"But there are also differences," Malfoy interrupted. "From what Harry says, the spell created a whole elaborate dream universe for him. Why should the dreams be like that, instead of just focusing on a different version of me?"

He and Hermione were off and running, and Harry leaned back on the pillow, scowling at the ceiling. Yes, the dreams were disturbing when looked at in that light, but he didn't think either of them had considered one thing:

There were still people in the dreams to be helped, when you got right down to it.


	19. Further Into Research

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Nineteen-Further Into Research_

"All right. What do you need?"

The words startled Harry out of the list of notes he was making, about a historical case that he thought had some similarity to the Malfoy one in his dreams. He leaned back in his chair and watched Malfoy's head pop around the corner of the office door.

_I don't know why I should have been startled in the first place. It's always going to be him when I hear someone talking to me who's not immediately familiar and has no reason to be here._

"I'm sorry?" Harry asked. "What do you mean? I thought you were consulting dream experts, because what I need is a solution to the problem of the dreams."

Malfoy didn't respond at first. He seemed far too interested in studying the shaky piles of books on Hermione's desk and clucking his tongue. Harry wondered if he was distressed by the books' subjects or by the fact that she had them on her desk instead of sitting neatly on shelves. He had got the impression over the past few days that Malfoy was an impeccably neat person.

_Another reason that we wouldn't get along, _Harry told himself, virtuously and self-righteously and probably entirely without truth. _I would be a slob and annoy him, and he would be too neat and irritate me._

"That's what you need in this world." Malfoy shoved himself up to sit on a corner of Hermione's desk, after having spelled some of the books out of the way. Harry reckoned he'd just been looking for a clear place to plant his bottom. Malfoy swung his legs back and forth, and watched Harry with troubled eyes. "What do you need in your dreams?"

Harry blinked twice, and then managed to pick his jaw up off the floor. "I'm sorry?" he asked. "What do you think _you_ can do? I know that you can't enter the dreams. And you don't think of them as another world anyway," he added belatedly, suddenly figuring out why Malfoy's words had sounded so strange to him.

"Let's say that I do for now," Malfoy said, his eyes boring into Harry. He leaned forwards on the desk, his legs stopping their nervous swing. "Let's say that I want to see you given what you need, because it's terribly obvious that you won't be content until you have it. Let's say that I can agree that the dreams are another world for long enough to give you what you need."

Harry swallowed. Then he told himself that he was _allowed_ to feel his breath coming short when Malfoy said those words with that intent look on his face.

"I need Draco cleared," he said, closing his eyes and picturing Draco's face and the trusting look there, a look that Malfoy had never shown him and never could. "I need the Malfoys in general cleared." Malfoy made a little sound in the back of his throat, probably because Harry had spoken his last name as though it had nothing to do with him, but Harry ignored him. "Right now, I need to understand most of all what Discipula is doing, because there seems to be no clear reason for her to go after them, and yet she is."

"All right," Malfoy said. "I need you to tell me more about Discipula, because you haven't described her much so far."

Harry opened one eye and frowned at him. "But like I said, you can't enter the dreams. You would always be missing some crucial detail that I can't provide, because I'm not a very good witness."

Malfoy gave him a faint smile this time. "Can you put your memory of the dream in a Pensieve? That would be one way to let me see her and your interactions with her."

Harry paused, startled. "Why didn't I think of that before?" he muttered. "Shit."

"Because you didn't have me around before," Malfoy said, in the sort of patient "of-course" tone that Harry associated more often with Hermione.

Harry half-glared at him as he rose to his feet. "I don't keep Pensieves in the office," he said. "You'll have to come with me."

"That could sound threatening," Malfoy said as he stood aside to let Harry pass, "if I let it."

Harry half-heartedly glared at him. Malfoy only smiled back, his smile deep at the corners, his eyes bright, and Harry shook his head. "You're only being nice to me because you think that might persuade me to forgive you."

"Well, _yes_," Malfoy said. "Given that that's my goal, being unpleasant to you would be counterproductive."

Harry sighed as he opened the door. "You could try reacting honestly," he suggested. "That way, people like me wouldn't be judging you every time you opened your mouth or announced your goals."

"I did try that," Malfoy said, his voice suddenly soft. "And you never noticed."

Harry shrugged. "You can't blame me for that," he said, deciding to try a new tactic so that they didn't get pulled back into the same old morass of a conversation. "When was the last time that you just _backed away _because someone denied you something you wanted, rather than going after it with a screaming temper tantrum? That's what I saw you do in Hogwarts."

Malfoy sniffed. "Allow me to think that I have learned more sophisticated versions of the screaming temper tantrum as I aged."

"Still doesn't explain why you didn't use them on me," Harry said over his shoulder as they descended.

"They're for people I don't mind irritating," Malfoy said. "I minded irritating you. Unpleasantness? Counterproductive? Does this remind you of anything?"

"So instead," Harry said, reduced once again to rolling his eyes as they emerged from the office building, "you decided to cast a spell on me that you knew I would be angry about if I ever discovered it?"

"But you probably wouldn't have discovered it," Malfoy said. "So that didn't particularly bother me. The spell didn't compel you to love me or anything like that," he added, as if he'd heard Harry's unspoken objection. "Once it directed your attention to me, it was up to me to keep and hold that attention. So it really did no more than give me a fighting chance."

Harry stopped and just stared at him. Malfoy stared back, his eyelashes looking longer and darker than they should over his serious grey eyes. Harry wondered if part of the change was that he had never seen Malfoy look that serious before.

"Why are you saying things like this?" Harry asked finally. "You must know that they don't impress me or make me want to give you a second chance."

"Because this is the kind of person I am." Malfoy's voice was tight. "Someone who will do anything for something he wants, the way you already said I was, but not always with a screaming temper tantrum. Someone who has to struggle to be nice, because it's against his nature. You said you wanted honest. This is it. This is me."

Harry began walking, revolving various arguments in his head. Malfoy kept pace with him, darting him little glances now and then.

"I reckon I didn't think you would be _this _honest," Harry said. "Or like this. Perhaps I should have said that I didn't think you would be this honest, yeah."

"You can always choose not to date me," Malfoy said, giving his head a small, nervous shake. Then he straightened his shoulders and glared sideways at Harry. "But you can't contradict yourself. If what you want is the lying exterior, then you should say that."

"I want you to want something more than me," Harry said, so exasperated he could barely speak. "You shouldn't choose what to do based on what other people want of you."

Malfoy snorted. "As if you don't."

"I don't!" Harry had reached the Apparition point, but he didn't Apparate. It would have felt like cheating to end this conversation that way, or like letting Malfoy win. He swung around to face him instead, frowning. "Everybody said I should be an Auror, but I chose barrister work. And even Hermione thinks that I should give you a second chance, maybe be your friend, maybe date you, but I'm not doing that yet, am I?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "And yet you still play the hero, because that's what people expect you to do. I wonder if you would have cared as much about saving people if you'd had a normal life and not had to protect the whole bloody wizarding world."

Harry shook his head. "It's a good thing for you I do have it, isn't it? Otherwise, you might not have had anyone to testify at your trial."

Malfoy's eyes widened for a moment. Then he nodded. "Yes, all right, I can admit that. But you should still be focused on saving _real _people, not ones who appear in your dreams."

"They feel real to me," Harry said stiffly. He had been sure that his words would get Malfoy angry, and now that they hadn't, he didn't know what to do.

"We were going to have you put one of the dream-memories of Discipula into a Pensieve, so you could show me," Malfoy said, and began walking again. "I can't say how real they are until I experience them for myself."

"I don't know how well that'll work," Harry muttered, but followed him. His mind was on Malfoy's unexpected reaction more than the walk or the Apparition that followed, though.

Malfoy _might_-just possibly _might_-be a little bit less of a bastard than Harry had thought him.

Once again, though, Harry didn't know what he was supposed to do with that knowledge.

* * *

Malfoy stayed bent over the Pensieve for longer than Harry would have thought possible. He rapped his fingers on his knee and stared around the library for lack of something better to do. He had no urge to view the memory himself, which was the one where Discipula had introduced Nora Potter to him. He felt as though he knew it well enough, from the sight of his great-great-aunt's pleading eyes to the small smirk on Discipula's face.

What _was _going to happen if Malfoy surfaced from the memory and said that it didn't feel real to him?

Harry shrugged irritably. He couldn't change the way he felt about the dreams because of someone else's say-so. The best he could hope for was that Malfoy would take him seriously enough to offer the help he had said he would, and then Harry could put him to work sniffing out Discipula's motives. A pure-blood might understand her better than Harry could, who had grown up in such a different world.

_If anyone can understand a figment of my imagination._

Harry stood up and started to prowl restlessly about the room, casting glance after glance in the direction of Malfoy's bent head. He wished he could know what the git would say before he said it, and that he could stop feeling so nervous about it all. If this was Draco, he knew, he wouldn't be nervous. He _could _anticipate Draco's reactions, from the wide-eyed look he would give Harry to the way his brows would bend down over his forehead when he offered advice.

_Draco's a lot simpler than Malfoy._

Malfoy pulled his head up with a sudden shudder and splash, and shook himself for a moment, gaze abstracted, before he turned and focused on Harry again. Harry straightened his shoulders and found that he was reaching for a wand, the way he would in a duel. He made himself curl his fingers into his palm, forming a loose first, so he could stop.

"Well?" Harry asked. "Is she genuine?"

"I can see why you feel that she has her own independent existence," Malfoy replied thoughtfully. "But no, she's not genuine in any sense of the word."

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes, obscurely glad to be back on bad terms with Malfoy. "Oh, right. Because the people in my head aren't real, and you're not going to do anything that would admit they are."

"It's not that," Malfoy said. "Or not _just _that." He might not have noticed the sharp tone Harry couldn't keep from creeping into his voice. He sat down in the chair next to the Pensieve and stared at the ceiling with a frown, his tongue flicking out like a lizard's as he thought. "She-doesn't act as confident as someone should who's in a position of power. I must admit that she's intelligent, since she figured out that you have a connection to the Potter family despite not knowing who you were. But that's something that anyone with a moderate level of intelligence and the ability to observe your face in the right light could have done."

"I don't think so," Harry said sharply. "I don't look _that _much like my father."

Malfoy stared at him. "Yes, you do," he said. "How many photographs of your father have you seen?"

"A lot," Harry said stoutly, ignoring the fact that they were all the same ones, the ones in the album that Hagrid had made for him. "Anyway, you'd think the fact that Harry Potter was never actually born in that universe would have made people less likely to suspect me. I don't look like someone who died, I look like someone who never existed."

Malfoy snorted. "Nora Potter, who doesn't strike me as the most brilliant woman around, still managed to see the connection between you and someone who was never born. Yes, I think you do have to worry about your identity being suspected. But we were speaking about Discipula," he went on, before Harry could argue any more about his family. "She _doesn't _act like someone in that position should be expected to act. I was watching her face while you spoke with Nora. She wasn't smiling. She was looking at you narrow-eyed, as though she didn't expect her tactic to work."

"Well, she couldn't have _known _it would," Harry said, and then stopped, wondering why he was arguing the opposite side of the argument from Malfoy. He had wanted Malfoy to analyze Discipula as if she was a real person, and he was doing that. Harry couldn't figure out why the conclusions bothered him.

"No, that's true," Malfoy said, once again not seeming to notice the perfect opening Harry had handed him. "She couldn't have _known_. But I would still expect more self-confidence in someone who's risen as far as she has, who has the friendship of the Boy-Who-Lived and basic control of the Death Eater trials. She should be less uncertain. Instead, she acts like-" He snapped his fingers triumphantly. "Like Millicent Bulstrode."

"What?" Harry asked blankly. He didn't have a lot of memories of Bulstrode from Hogwarts, but it was hard to imagine two women more unalike than the poised, confident Discipula and the awkward girl he remembered.

"Bulstrode's parents lost most of their money a year after she was born," Malfoy said. "They couldn't keep up the standard of living that Slytherin pure-bloods were expected to have. Bulstrode was terrified that we would find out. She learned Mending Charms early, for example, and Color-Changing Charms, so that we would think she was wearing new and different robes when she was wearing the same ones again and again."

Harry felt a sudden fierce blast of empathy for Bulstrode. "Wish I'd known them," he muttered, thinking of Dudley's clothes.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "What are you talking about? You've always had plenty of money."

"Not always," said Harry, and then once again hauled himself back to the appropriate subject of conversation just as Malfoy's eyes started to shine in curiosity. "Anyway. So you think Discipula's family is poor?"

Malfoy shook his head. "Not necessarily. But she has that same wary walk that Bulstrode did, the same air of someone protecting a secret. I don't think it's visible to people who know her very well. They're probably fooled by the deflecting mechanisms she sets up. But she doesn't know what to do with you, and so it showed when she was watching you."

"A secret," Harry muttered. "Well, I knew she probably did, since she wants Draco's family dead so badly. But I reckon you can't tell what it is?"

"Not exactly." Malfoy's jaw worked for a moment, and then he leaned forwards. "What else can I do to help? What would help you to get through these dreams, do what you think you need to do in them, and then go on to something else?"

Harry stared at him. "What?" he asked at last, when he could get his mouth open. "You mean it? But you think they're dangerous!"

"I have a theory that Granger didn't receive kindly, but which I still believe is true," Malfoy said grimly. "These dreams have taken such strong root in your head because they combined, not with any leftover magic from your scar, as she thinks right now, but with your need to be needed. That makes them almost pathologic in their addiction and their hold on you. It would explain their form, creating a situation parallel to one in the real world where you found yourself needed: saving me and _my_ family. They won't end until you fulfill that need."

"So you want to help me so they'll go away faster," Harry said, relieved. This fit the Malfoy he understood, rather than creating a whole new one that he would have to work to grasp.

"Yes." Malfoy shook his head. "And once you see this version of me liberated, then you might stop wanting to go there."

Harry sighed. "I don't know," he said. "It's hard to imagine a time when Draco won't need me."

Malfoy made a thick, disgusted sound in his throat and rose to his feet, striding across the room.

"Wait," Harry said, confused, scrambling to his feet, too. "Where are you going? Didn't you want to help?"

"Yes," Malfoy said, leaning against the doorway. He dug his fingers into the wood, actually peeling splinters away, before he seemed to have control of himself again and simply stood there breathing. "Yes, I do. But I wanted to leave before I blurted something out that you wouldn't want to hear."

"Tell me," Harry insisted. At the moment, he felt as though he could handle anything Malfoy threw at him.

Malfoy whipped back around, eyes wide. "How can you ever be free of these dreams if you always have someone who needs you?" he asked. "Why can't you have someone who _wants _you? What's so bad about that? No, I didn't need you to become the best Quidditch player ever-although it would have helped me-or to save my life or to free me from Azkaban after the trial. Why does that make me inferior to someone who needs to lean on you?"

"Not-inferior," Harry said, baffled because he'd never thought of it in those terms. "I told you, I just have trouble fitting someone like you into my life."

"But why?" Malfoy took an insistent step back towards him. "Is the thought of someone wanting you scary?"

"Most of the people who wanted me only wanted me for my fame," Harry said dryly. "And Ginny and I just didn't work. I've become wary of dating people who don't fit in with the rest of my life."

"I work well with Granger, at least," Malfoy said. "Weasley might learn to get along with me in time."

"Not that kind of fitting," Harry said, ignoring the fact that he had once considered it a problem even if he _had _wanted to date Malfoy. "Fitting with me, with who I am. We're opposite in all these important ways. I'm half-blood and you're pure-blood. You're analytical and I'm not. You change your mind all the time, and I don't. I need people to need me, and you don't."

"I'll grant those first three," Malfoy said. "Not the last one. I can protect people who rely on me. I'm honored that my mother actually leaned on my strength during the last phase of our trials, and so did my father. Do you know that he _never _did that before? Not once? He was always the adult, and he made me be the child. But not that time. I was the one who held him when he thought Mother would be condemned. I got to be strong, and I enjoyed it."

Harry blinked. He felt as though he had been admitted to a private sanctum in Malfoy's house, the way Malfoy looked and sounded as he shared that story. He didn't know what to say or where to look, and he ended up scratching the back of his neck and looking away.

"So don't say that I don't fit with you," Malfoy whispered. "Not yet. We haven't tried."

"It's just an endless process of _trying_, isn't it?" Harry asked, feeling weary now. "That's another reason that I'm reluctant to-to be with you, Malfoy, to be more than friends. I can see a defined goal with Draco, rescuing him and his family. I can see myself becoming a barrister. All this study is going _somewhere. _But I can't see the end with you. I don't know whether we would break up or kill each other or walk away from each other one day or what. And you're still the person who cursed me, and I'm still the person who ignored you."

"What I want to do is change that."

Harry blinked and looked up. Malfoy stood so close to him that his eyes were big enough to drown in, and he rested his hands on Harry's shoulders for balance as though he was drowning himself.

"I'm trying," Malfoy said. "To be less selfish, to help you, to tell you things about me that I've never told anyone. I don't think it's working so far, but that's no reason to stop trying."

Harry shook his head. He wanted to argue, but hadn't he almost told Malfoy about the Dursleys and the clothes they made him wear? They seemed to be reaching out to each other, slowly and reluctantly, but inevitably.

_Maybe. _

"I still find it hard to forgive you," Harry said abruptly, taking a step backwards. "If you can't realize that, then-then I'm not sure what else I should do to make sure that you do."

Malfoy's head tilted downwards, and he gave a private smile. "I'll work for your forgiveness," he said. "I've apologized. I'll see what else I can help you with. Right now, I'm going to research Discipula and see if I can find out who was born in this world in her place, or at least what her family was like."

He slipped away, leaving Harry reeling and blinking. One moment, his hands and eyes seemed full of Malfoy, and the next, he was gone.

_And it's good that he is, _Harry thought a moment later. He had spent the longest time not thinking of Draco at all, because he had been with Malfoy, that he had since the dreams began.

And even when he had the time and space to return to his research, or to begin thinking about the secret Discipula was hiding, he found it hard, because his mind _would _keep going back to Malfoy and the passionate, broken way he spoke.

_I know something about him no one else knows. _

_That's so strange._


	20. Hunting on the Ground

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Hunting on the Ground_

"I don't know if I can face them."

Harry put a hand on Draco's shoulder and smiled into his face. He was standing next to Harry, not running away, but his legs were locked as if he thought that the ground would shift any second. And when he felt Harry touching him, he _did _turn and bury his head in Harry's shoulder.

Malfoy would probably despise him for being weak. But Harry remembered the way he had felt when he was tried for using the Patronus Charm in fifth year, and even how sick and shaky his stomach had been when he stepped into the courtroom in his own world to give the testimony that would free Narcissa Malfoy.

"Don't think about the people watching," Harry murmured. "They won't be allowed to interfere, or the trial would become a circus, and I can't think that even Discipula wants that. Keep your gaze on me or your parents, instead. Or the witnesses. Think about what you'll do when you have your freedom back and you're able to go wherever you want."

"So you think that'll happen." Draco's voice was soft, and his fingers tangled in the edge of Harry's shirt as if he had forgotten that Harry was the one wearing it. Harry could feel Lucius's gaze on them from behind, but he didn't know if it was disapproving, upset, or something else. He wasn't about to turn around and check, either.

"Yes, I do." Harry infused his voice with confidence, because anything else wasn't to be thought of right now. "I think that everything you want will happen. And that I want will happen," he added, aware that Draco might not think those two things were exactly identical. "We'll get you free. I'm a good barrister."

_Well, I think I am. In theory, anyway._

Draco gave a tiny sigh and a smile, and then stepped out into the middle of the courtroom that Discipula had chosen, looking at no one, but only at the small cluster of chairs on the left side. Woburn, Wellworth, and McGonagall were already seated there. Woburn looked blank, Wellworth self-satisfied, and McGonagall strained and pale.

The crowd pushed in from beyond the railings around the courtroom. Harry knew they weren't inside the Ministry, but he hadn't recognized the outside of this building when they arrived, any more than he had recognized the one where the Malfoys were held. It was possible that it didn't exist in his own world. The crowd consisted of wizards and witches of all ages who began to shout when the Malfoys appeared, but Harry waved his wand unobtrusively by his side and raised a wall of silence around them.

Draco turned to him with a look of amazement. Harry grinned back at him. "Well, we have to be able to hear ourselves speak, don't we?" he murmured.

Draco didn't say anything, but he did duck his head with a motion that made it look as though he was trying to hide his own smile.

When they arrived at the cluster of chairs, Harry shook hands with the witnesses-except Woburn, who acted as if he was above such niceties-and thanked them for coming. Wellworth accepted his hand with a beam and a nod. Woburn simply watched him with those same burning eyes that could apparently detect a lie.

McGonagall looked as if she was about to fall off her chair.

"I thought there was something odd from the photograph," she breathed, as she held Harry's hand between her own and stared into his face. Harry shifted uneasily. The McGonagall he knew would have been too self-conscious to do anything like that, but possibly this one was different. "I didn't realize _this_, though. A perfect likeness!"

Malfoy's voice murmured in Harry's head, saying that he didn't know how much he looked like his father. He shook it off as much as possible and gave McGonagall a temperate smile. "Headmistress?"

"You look as if you're a member of the Potter family," McGonagall whispered. She sat back and let go of his hand, then, but the shocked look remained on her face. "And those eyes could have come from Lily Evans, who died at the end of You-Know-Who's wand, Merlin rest her soul." Abruptly, she shut her eyes and looked away.

Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably and nodded. "My family's taken in a lot of blood from different Squibs over the centuries," he said. "Some of them could have been Potters."

"Impossible," McGonagall said. "There were no Squibs born to the Potters in the last two centuries. There were so few children..." Then she suddenly blinked and sighed. "Forgive me, Mr. Evans. This must be painful for you, when you know perfectly well who your family really was. There could have been a Squib I didn't know about, of course. Or you could be related to the Evans family that produced Lily, and just look a bit like James."

Harry gave her a faint smile and turned to help Draco into his chair. Someone else was looking at him now, though, hard enough to make his skin prickle, and he glanced up casually, expecting to see Discipula staring down from the high podium.

No. It was Woburn, his eyes so hard that Harry half-expected him to stand up and stamp out of the courtroom, declaring that he wouldn't help them.

He didn't. Harry shrugged back, not caring if the bastard saw him do it, and turned his back to make sure the elder Malfoys had comfortably found their chairs. He doubted that Woburn would know anything about either the Potters _or _the Evans families; he probably represented the kind of pure-blood wizards who kept themselves aloof from even other pure-bloods, at least if they "polluted" their heritage by marrying Muggleborns.

* * *

Within five minutes of the trial's beginning, Harry knew that he was in over his head.

It wasn't that he didn't understand the witnesses' claims, or the legal precedents being invoked. (Well, all right, he understood _most _of the legal precedents). But he hadn't realized just how many witnesses the prosecution would call out.

As the parade went on, men and women and even children who stated that they'd seen Lucius casting curses as a Death Eater and a few who had stated that they had seen Narcissa, plus people Draco's age who talked about how much he had bragged about his father's involvement with Voldemort, the Malfoys looked sick. Well, not Lucius. And Narcissa only went pale and held her husband's arm unnecessarily hard.

But Draco looked as though he might throw up. And McGonagall had turned away from the betrayed glances other people gave her in a way that made Harry think she regretted agreeing to become a character witness for their side.

Discipula sat in her high seat and listened calmly to all that testimony, except during the moments when her eyes gleamed with sympathetic tears. On either side of her sat members of the Wizengamot, and in a chair not far away was Neville. He seemed to be watching things, Harry saw, but there was no expression of either understanding or compassion on his face.

The parade lasted most of the morning, and Harry was shaking by the time they were excused to find sandwiches or something else they could eat. He came back with a plate of sandwiches for Draco and his parents, although Lucius turned up his nose at anything so common. Wellworth ate her own lunch happily enough, and nodded at Harry when she was done.

"What happens after this?" she asked.

"We'll begin with our own testimony," said Harry. He glanced about for Woburn, but he had vanished. Well, Harry doubted that he would have any objections to Harry assigning him to go last. He would probably think that it was more fitting of his dignity, or some such thing. "Headmistress, you first, as I have the most hopes of getting Draco acquitted, and the evidence against him was weakest."

"Did you listen to them?" McGonagall's voice and face were both grey, and she hadn't touched her food. "I didn't realize-Mr. Malfoy, how many times did you talk about your father and what he would do to anyone who tried to hurt you or even get better marks than you did?"

Draco winced, but to his credit, he didn't turn away from her bleak stare. "I've lost count of all the times, Headmistress," he admitted softly.

McGonagall sighed. "How are we going to combat them?" she asked no one in particular. "They have all the witnesses on their side. And there's no denying that some of them did commit crimes." Her gaze passed too quickly across Lucius for him to notice, or at least deign to notice, but Narcissa gave her a nasty look.

Harry jumped in at that point. The last thing he needed was this small and motley collection fighting among themselves. "Yes, I know, but we need to concentrate on the evidence. Everyone so far has testified that the Death Eaters wore masks. Exactly how did they know that the people they saw were Malfoys? And Draco's bragging about his father is the sort of thing all schoolboys do. There's no reason to take it more seriously than the threats of one student to kill another."

He turned back to Draco and saw that he wore an odd, stricken expression. Harry reached out without thinking and let Draco clasp his hand, but Draco's hand shook more than Harry was used to it doing.

"I'm a child?" Draco whispered.

Harry sighed. He hadn't meant to give that impression, but he probably had, talking as though he was years older than Draco rather than just a few months-well, no, perhaps it was a few years, but only a few. "I just meant that they shouldn't take what you said at the time seriously," he tried to explain. "Not that you're not an adult now, of course. You're probably more mature than most of them, since you've spent so much time in prison."

Draco didn't smile. He leaned nearer and whispered against Harry's ear, close enough to raise the small hairs there. "But compared to you, and what you've done, I know that I _am _a kid. How could I have hoped that you would see me as anything else?"

Harry shook his head and grasped his hands hard enough to make Draco wince a little. "Don't think about that," he said, his voice wavering between command and plea. "You're still innocent. You still deserve a trial."

"And your regard?" Draco leaned away from him, eyes bright and hard.

"I-"

But Woburn appeared back in his chair then, and Discipula announced the end of lunch in a sonorous voice that made Harry think she should have been Minister after all. Neville slipped back into his seat, wiping his mouth. He caught Harry's eye and gave him a sort of guilty look. Harry took a deep breath, wondered if he should smile or frown back, and ended up turning to Draco instead, who looked as though he didn't know whether he should be jealous.

"We'll talk about this later," he said, quietly but forcefully.

"Ordering me around." Draco's face was paler than normal, and suddenly Harry could see the resemblance to Malfoy that he'd denied seeing before. "Like my _Mum_." He turned and shoved his chair forwards so that it was between his parents', rather than separate from them.

"Draco-" Harry began.

"It is your turn to call your first witness, Mr. Evans," Discipula said, inflexible as a hailstone.

Harry bowed, to hide his glare, and turned to McGonagall. "Please, Headmistress," he said. "Think about what you've seen him do, how you've seen him act, rather than what other people have said."

McGonagall looked at him, then seemed to look more deeply, and abruptly nodded. "Yes, you are right, Mr. Evans," she said. "I should have been doing that. I am sorry that it took your words to remind me where duty lies."

And with _that _ambiguous comment, she turned and marched across the courtroom to the podium-like stand the rest of the witnesses had taken, leaving Harry blinking behind her.

"State your name and position," Discipula said, as she had said to all the other witnesses. Harry had watched carefully, but he detected no sign that she was absolutely in charge of the proceedings other than that. She was the one who had set the date and place of the trial, but the other Wizengamot members asked more questions than she did, and even Neville volunteered certain words sometimes. Discipula leaned back and watched things with an expert eye, not interfering.

Watching.

She wasn't the judge. But Harry knew better than to let that persuade him that she wasn't dangerous.

"Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts." McGonagall's voice was firm and strong now, and she leaned forwards as if she was prepared to attack Discipula in defense of a member of her House. Harry nodded in some relief. _That _was the professor he knew, and he was glad to see her taking her place on the battlefield. He wouldn't have wanted to have to fight her as well as Discipula.

"Headmistress, we all know what a fine person you are," said a Wizengamot witch in a bright yellow robe that made Harry think of daffodils. "Why have you agreed to be a character witness for someone whom you must know wanted to destroy the school and everyone in it?"

"I only know one person who wanted to destroy the school and everyone in it," McGonagall said in a dry tone. "And rest assured, Mr. Malfoy is not him. He was much taller, much paler, and had no nose."

There was a slight rustle of laughter in the Wizengamot for the first time, but the witch in the yellow robe wasn't satisfied. "Yes, but surely you must admit that someone who served him willingly is not to be trusted?"

"I have questions about the willingness of Mr. Malfoy's service, given that he claims to have been coerced into it," McGonagall said, even more dryly than before. "And there is a large difference between not trusting someone and executing him."

Neville leaned forwards. Harry saw the way the audience turned to orient on him, like a sunflower spinning to meet the sun. No matter what the questions surrounding Neville's defeat of Voldemort might be, it seemed that they still regarded him as a hero.

"You said sometimes that you wanted to kill me, and the people who were my friends," Neville said. He spoke quietly, but the courtroom's acoustics were good, and Harry knew everyone could hear him. "Why did you think that anyone would believe that you weren't a Death Eater?"

Harry was on his feet before he knew that he was going to stand. "Mr. Longbottom is violating a point of order!" he said loudly. "Mr. Malfoy is not in the box and therefore cannot be directly addressed."

Neville turned to him with eyes as large as full moons, and Harry felt a frisson of shock travel through him. Neville hadn't been expecting the challenge.

And not because he didn't know the rules of the courtroom. On some level, it seemed, he had expected Harry to be like everyone else, and cower in awe when Neville looked at him. No wonder that he had felt free to speak to Draco; everyone else would bend the rules for him or know they were to be bent, so he had thought Harry would, too.

Or so Harry thought in those few dizzying moments when he was meeting Neville's gaze and no one else was moving to do anything. It was possible that he was wrong and the way Neville stared at him meant something entirely different, of course. But he didn't think so.

"Mr Evans," Discipula said in a weary, tolerant voice. "I'm sure that our Chosen One meant to direct his question to the right person. After all, we know that Mr. Malfoy will need to speak in his own defense. This is merely skipping a step in the process, and I think it right and necessary. We know that truth often appears under impulsive circumstances, rather than perfectly polished ones."

_I don't want you to coach him into actually defending himself, _Harry read the subtext under that speech.

He bared his teeth and replied, "And yet, Madam, when I wanted to question one of the witnesses who claimed that Mrs. Malfoy had joined her husband in Death Eater raids, you told me that I was not yet allowed, and the order of the courtroom must be upheld. Would you say the same thing now, or is the _Chosen One _allowed leeway just because of who he is?"

Discipula's face changed. Only for a moment, only for a flicker of expression, but Harry was looking right at her and didn't doubt what he saw.

_She's afraid. And angry. And it has something to do with Neville._

Harry took a deep breath and held it while trying to make sure that he remembered her expression well, so that he could show it in a Pensieve to Malfoy when he got back to the other world. _I wonder if part of the secret she conceals is that she's been asking for political power, or enacting political reforms, while pretending she's acting for Neville? That could be a reason for her to be afraid when someone comes in who's not overawed by the Boy-Who-Lived and who actually dares to question him._

"My apologies, Mr. Evans," Discipula said in a voice as sweet as treacle tart. "I didn't realize you were such an _experienced _barrister. Of course you are right, and of course letting Mr. Longbottom do exactly as he wishes should not be supported in a courtroom. I will speak with him." And she leaned back and whispered directly into Neville's ear, while another Wizengamot member spoke up to question McGonagall.

Harry had to force himself to pay attention to the questions and McGonagall's answers. His heart was pounding, and he found it difficult even to sit down and take his eyes from Discipula.

_The bitch. The bloody bitch._

He didn't know why he was so angry. Had _he _become used to that sort of special treatment from people in his own world because he was the Boy-Who-Lived, to the point that denial of it enraged him?

And it wasn't as though it was strange for someone in a courtroom to test the limits of rules and what they could get away with. It was probably more common for the opposition or the accused to do so, but Hermione had warned him about it, and Harry had thought he'd accepted it-especially with all the reading of historical cases she'd had him do, where people had actually been sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss because of tampering with the rules of procedure.

But Discipula had managed to get him angry anyway. Harry had to touch his temple and shake his head hard before he could start paying attention to the courtroom in front of him again.

"I do not know that simply bragging about what his father would do makes Mr. Malfoy into a criminal," McGonagall was saying. She had her pace now, and was giving the Wizengamot a sardonic look that made more than one member move uneasily in their seats. Harry wondered how many of them might have had her for a professor. "Otherwise, we would have to use a Time-Turner to arrest me, since I bragged as a child that my mother would turn someone throwing mud at me into a toad."

"But everyone knows that you are an upstanding citizen, Headmistress," said a large wizard in a sky-blue robe. "The Malfoys were _Death Eaters._"

_Strange the way people repeat those words here, _Harry thought, clenching one hand into a fist down at his side, where people watching him couldn't see it. _It's as if they're an incantation that they expect to take away all the common sense of those who hear it._

He shot a glance at Draco, only to find him sitting straight in his chair, gaze on McGonagall as if she was the only one who could save him. Harry swallowed uncomfortably and turned back to watch her, too.

"From listening to me as a child, you could not have predicted that," McGonagall said, her voice thickening with something that might have been amusement. "The same thing holds true for Mr. Malfoy. Just because, as a child, he exhibited some character traits that the majority here condemn does not mean that he will grow up and become that same kind of adult."

Harry let out a large breath. He could see that some of the people in the courtroom, even in the audience, had taken in that point and been struck by it.

Discipula was smiling.

_Why? _Harry glared at her enough that she started to turn her head towards him, but he looked away before she could catch his eye. He swallowed the rage. He didn't know why she was having such an effect on him, and he tried to tell himself that it was only paranoia that made him feel as if she was winning because she looked smug or amused when they started to succeed. If anything, that was probably a technique she had learned in politics, and he shouldn't be surprised that she knew it or that she could make someone watching her feel small.

The members of the Wizengamot asked McGonagall a few more questions, but it was plain that they felt unable to dent her wall of tranquility, or perhaps were too respectful of her to try and do so. When she turned towards Harry at last and gave him an encouraging smile to begin her questioning, Harry was fairly confident that Draco's reprieve from the conviction was already won.

It wouldn't do to act like it, of course. He stood up, smiled at McGonagall, and asked the first of his carefully prepared questions. "Headmistress, some people are saying that Mr. Malfoy went bad because he was in Slytherin, and that all Slytherins should be cast out of Hogwarts the moment the Hat Sorts them." _Start with a point of hyperbole, _Hermione had told him more than once. _Cutting back down from that can make you look reasonable. _"What is your response to that?"

"He was neither better nor worse than many other students I had the pleasure of teaching," McGonagall replied. "He played pranks and earned detentions, but so did every other student in the school."

Harry was horribly tempted to ask if that included Hermione, but he held himself sternly on-topic. "Thank you. And would you say that Mr. Malfoy ever expressed any willingness to be a Death Eater, himself, no matter how much he praised his father?"

"I never heard him do so. And more than once, he came to my office and acted as if he would like to speak to me. I thought he would confess then, but he did not do so. Understandably," McGonagall added, "since he feared what You-Know-Who would do to his parents. And family loyalty is a commendable thing in a child."

Harry glanced back towards Draco, unable to help it, and thinking he would be smiling. Instead, Draco sat there in a brooding sulkiness that only lifted when Lucius subtly poked him, probably reminding him that a dignified face would help them in the court.

Harry asked the rest of his questions, but he had been distracted by Draco's reaction, and he thought that he did a worse job with the questioning than otherwise-even though McGonagall pressed a commendatory hand on his shoulder as she stepped out of the podium.

And then chance, or fate, or his peculiar brand of luck, gave him something else to worry about. As Harry walked past Woburn's chair, he drew his wand and cast a spell in Harry's direction, not bothering to hide it.

Words formed in Harry's brain, a hissing telepathy.

_I know who you really are._


	21. Ducking and Diving

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-One-Ducking and Diving_

Harry caught his breath after the words, and then made himself sit down and stare ahead as though nothing had happened. It would be worse than useless now if he revealed his agitation. Discipula would probably find some way to take advantage of it, and then who knew what would happen? And it would weaken Draco's confidence in him.

When he glanced to the side, he saw that Draco's face was set. He was tapping his fingers against his knee as though he would learn more when he succeeded in drilling through the kneecap. Harry tried to smile reassuringly at him, and although he knew that Draco saw the smile because of the way he turned his head, he only gave a stiff shrug and faced the front again.

"Is something wrong?" Harry whispered, while the Wizengamot thrashed about muttering to itself and Woburn prepared to take the stand.

"Tell me what you think of me," Draco said.

Harry blinked. He hadn't heard Draco use that tone before. "I think that you're closer to being declared innocent than your parents," he said. "It doesn't mean that the suspicion against you will diminish overnight, but it's likely that you'll make your way past that. I know you're strong."

Draco turned to face him then. His eyes were wide enough to make Harry wince. His voice was low and taut with strain. "If you believe that, why do you insist on treating me like a child?"

Harry blinked a second time. "I wasn't aware that I did."

"You _do_." Draco turned his face away and added something else in a low, bitter tone that Harry didn't really catch. He thought one of the words was "better," though, and reached out so that he could put a hand on Draco's arm.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Yes, I'll try to do better if I offended you somehow. Tell me how?" He felt a flutter of panic at the thought of losing Draco. He tamped it down hard. Such feelings weren't appropriate in the courtroom.

Draco yanked his arm free, and since Harry had to go up and begin the questioning of Woburn then, he didn't really have time to try and soothe him. He tried to settle for a significant look, which Draco kept his head turned coolly away from. Harry gave a mental, helpless shrug and stepped forwards to confront Woburn.

That was how he thought of it, anyway, although nothing in Woburn's erect posture and blank face said that _he _was uncomfortable. He simply waited, one hand laid on the stand in front of him, the fingers unnaturally still. Harry asked the first question that burned at the forefront of his mind.

"Why are you willing to testify for Lucius Malfoy, sir?"

"I know him to be an unexampled paragon of the virtues that he most represents," Woburn said. "I honor him for his truth to those virtues and his ability to live with and around the currents of the wizarding world."

_Which, _Harry thought, _is really just saying nothing at all. _But he nodded as if it were a substantial answer. It was up to the Wizengamot and Discipula to try and undermine his defense, not Harry himself. "Do you think that Lucius Malfoy is capable of the crimes for which he has been charged?" All the while, he was watching Woburn, trying to judge from the flicker of an eyelid whether he was someone who could have decided who Harry was based on the family resemblance of his face to a Potter's, the way Discipula had.

"Certainly not," Woburn said, with a slight shake of his head. "An examination of the dates on which these alleged crimes occurred should tell the Wizengamot that no one could possibly have committed all of them, since he would have had to Apparate from one battle to another with only seconds in between, and the witnesses always report him in immaculately clean robes and mask. He would, at least, have taken some minor wounds or show some sign of exhaustion."

_That's a point I ought to have made on my own, _Harry thought, struggling to preserve a calm mask while he heard gasps and mutters from the Wizengamot. He nodded gravely and said, "That's a very good point, sir." He started to add another question, but Discipula leaned forwards and spoke sweetly, in a voice used to commanding crowds.

"How _interesting, _sir. I'm sure that you could give us a list of those battles and the dates on which they occurred, couldn't you?"

Woburn turned to look at her, and she stared back. Harry was glad that he wasn't between them at the moment. He had the distinct impression that their crossed gazes might have set him on fire.

"I could," said Woburn. "If they would mean anything to you, someone who must have seen most of them."

Discipula's face went so pale that Harry really thought she was going to faint.  
"Excuse me?" she asked, in a voice that shook. She paused, and when she spoke again, it had steadied. "I did not have the good fortune to be present at the times when others, heroes, were engaging in the defense of our world."

"Forgive me," Woburn said, with a distant smolder in his voice that Harry might have thought was flirtatious if he hadn't seen Discipula's reaction. "I meant that you would have seen most of the _results _of the battles. Philosophers I respect have insisted that one can see, in the traces of a vanished potion, the ingredients that went into making it. Looking at the grime and injuries of a battle must tell one something about what happened, or so I assume. Alas, I fear that I have as little experience as you do."

This time, high spots of color burned in Discipula's cheeks, as though this statement was worse than the last one. Harry wondered why, and then shook his head slightly. No, his task at the moment was to remember the exact words and expressions as much as he could. He would put them into a Pensieve so that Malfoy and Hermione could help analyze them later.

"I am sure that you are highly intelligent, sir," Discipula said, "and understand the battles in as much detail as if you had been there."

"May I return the compliment?" Woburn asked. His voice was normal as far as Harry could tell, level, without any hint of hidden anger, but Discipula closed her eyes and swayed as if he had threatened her.

It was only for a moment, and Harry doubted that anyone watching Discipula from an angle other than his could see it, which was probably why she had permitted herself to show as much weakness as that in the first place. She pulled herself upright in the next second and nodded in the way that someone would to a fellow duelist. Then the witch in the yellow robes interrupted again, demanding the answer to a question about whether Woburn had been a Death Eater _with _Lucius. Woburn's voice was amused as he parried that one.

Harry decided that he would remember that private aside, but still stick with the usual run of questions he had prepared. To all of them, Woburn's answers were precise, pure-blood-friendly, and content-free. Harry nodded to him in admiration as he stepped down from the podium, despite his intense curiosity over the things he'd said to Discipula and the message Harry had received from him.

"You're really very good at that, sir," he said.

Woburn gave him a meaningless smile and resumed his seat. Harry was in time to see Lucius incline his head to him. Woburn gave him a flat stare back, more threatening somehow than the bland words he'd addressed to Discipula, and then turned away.

Harry turned to question Wellworth. After she was finished, the Wizengamot would call for a summary of the evidence, and speeches from Harry and the team of wizards who had mustered the parade of witnesses for the other side. It made Harry's head buzz and feel lighter just to think about it.

* * *

And then he opened his eyes.

Harry sighed and sat up, digging the palms of his hands into his face. Of all the times to leave the bloody dream! He would have the memory to put into a Pensieve later, at least. That was something.

As he shuffled into the shower, his mind went back, not to the words Woburn had spoken, nor to Discipula and the exchange between her and Woburn, but to Draco and the way he had spurned Harry's offer of comfort.

_I don't think of him as a child. He was wrong about that._

Then, as he turned around to let the water knock the bubbles of shampoo off the back of his head, Harry felt a spasm of doubt.

_Well. I thought that he was._

Malfoy had said that he thought the dreams were so strong and deeply-rooted because of Harry's need to be needed. And it made sense for that need to be anchored in Draco. He was the first person in the dreams to be friendly to Harry, and the one who had acted as if he couldn't stand alone, in contrast to his composed and closed-off parents.

Harry grimaced a bit as he ducked his head under the spray and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. It would be sickening if he _preferred _the people he was attracted to to be like that, helpless and dependent and needing him to swoop in and be a hero for them.

Sickening, but accurate, it looked like. If Draco had sensed that attitude in Harry's mind, then no wonder he was annoyed.

_I want someone who's independent and able to stand up to me as well as help me along and fight beside me, _Harry thought, stepping out of the shower and grabbing his towel. _Of course I do._

But he remembered the fights he'd had with Ginny, which mostly seemed to center on the fact that Harry was doing something Ginny didn't want him to do. That had included things like buying her flowers, making her meals, asking her constantly about her day and not letting her ask any questions of her own, and offering to show her moves in Quidditch. Harry had just assumed it meant that he was more romantic than she was and they didn't care about the same things, so it was a good move for them to break up.

Now he wondered if she had felt the same way as Draco had: that he was keeping her dependent, coddling and protecting her, but not really _wanting _her, or letting her want him or care for him in return.

Harry felt as though the thought was clinging to him like cobwebs, and he tried to shrug it off while shrugging into his shirt, pants, and socks and casting quick Drying Charms on his hair. He hadn't brushed his teeth, but he could do that in a moment, he reassured himself.

_I didn't do that. I gave Ginny everything I thought she wanted or needed. I got her tickets to the games she asked for, and I booked us that holiday in Spain when she wanted that._

But the memories were stubborn, and wouldn't be defeated, as though the words Malfoy-or, more likely, Draco-spoke were keys to open doors Harry had shut. They showed him Ginny asking what he'd like for his birthday, and Harry shrugging, smiling, and saying that to be with her was enough. They showed him Ginny getting into a Quidditch accident and Harry hovering over her bedside, but not telling her when he got wounded on one of his last days in Auror training from a miscast spell, at least not until he got taken to St. Mungo's. They showed him pretending he didn't have headaches, a sore stomach, or an irritated temper, all so that he could make her day perfect, while pouncing on her slightest confession of discomfort as though it was something he needed to fix _immediately._

_Um_, Harry thought helplessly at the end of that, when the images finally slowed and he realized that he was standing in the middle of his bedroom with his trousers halfway up one leg.

_I reckon that I might have a problem with admitting that I need people to need me after all._

Harry sighed and sat down in the middle of his bed. All right, so he had this problem. That didn't change the main challenge of the dreams: he had to find out why they were happening and stop them, but he also had to find a way to help Draco and his parents. It didn't change a thing that they weren't real. That just made it more urgent that Harry help them, in the end.

_Draco would say that that was another symptom of this delusion that you have, _Harry thought, and then tensed. He wasn't sure which "Draco" he meant.

* * *

"There's no one named Woburn alive that I know of. There used to be one, yes, but he died years ago." Malfoy leaned back in his seat at the kitchen table and took a long, slow sip of the Firewhisky Harry had got him, frowning into the distance. "Besides, I don't see why he should be able to trade barbs with Discipula like that. He wouldn't have fought in the war."

"Voldemort would have courted him, surely." Harry rubbed his temples. He had a headache, and had refused the Firewhisky Malfoy offered to pour for him in return. Malfoy had raised an eyebrow when Harry sat down with a glass of butterbeer in front of him instead, but said nothing. "How can you be so sure that he wouldn't have fought in the war in a different world? One where people probably think that he's mostly a mask for disgraced pure-bloods?"

"You're treating the characters in your dreams like they're real again, instead of figments of your imagination," Malfoy told him, with a tolerant look.

"You were doing the same thing a minute ago," Harry retorted, and had the satisfaction of seeing Malfoy look briefly uncomfortable. It was something he would never have taken satisfaction in when he was with Ginny. That thought made him speak more quickly on the next words than he meant to, which must be why he didn't convince Malfoy. "Besides, what makes you think that I knew anything about Woburn in this world, or whatever Discipula's family name was again? That _must _be a sign that the dreams are more real than you think, if I'm imagining the existence of people I wouldn't have any reason to imagine."

Malfoy gave a delicate sigh. "Which of the two of us has studied dream magic and consulted dream magic experts, Harry?" Harry felt a slight jolt in his gut when Malfoy used his name, one that he decided to ignore for now. "Your dreams are capable of reminding you of things that you only heard once, or in passing, and then buried in your subconscious. You could have heard the _names _Woburn and Mondragaron and enough to know that they were pure-blood. What significance you chose to invest them with after that is up to your, of course."

Harry sighed back, but it wasn't as though he knew enough to refute Malfoy's point. "Fine. What did you find out about Discipula's family in this world?"

"The Mondragarons had no children in this or the last generation, at least not in the direct line," Malfoy said. "Apparently, the woman who would have been her mother was barren. Nor is there anyone like her among the cousins of her family." He opened one empty palm, smirking, in Harry's direction. "Sorry, but it seems as though your dreams are trying to cheat you with irrelevant details again."

Harry shook his head and tried a new tactic. "Did they seem false to you, when you looked at them in the Pensieve?"

"I only looked at one," Malfoy said. "And you could well have chosen a memory that you think was especially clear. In fact, that was the justification, wasn't it? That you chose a memory when you especially remember Discipula being present, instead of a moment when my counterpart was?"

Harry decided that he would ignore the attempt to draw him into an argument. "It still seems odd that I would have made up personalities so detailed," he said. "And I'd like you to look at the memories from last night. Two things happened that I'm not sure I understand." He laid his wand against his temple before Malfoy could argue and drew out the memory of Woburn communicating with him and the memory of Woburn's and Discipula's sparring match. When he dropped them in the Pensieve, Malfoy just nodded to him and then plunged his head beneath the surface. Harry was glad that _that _part had gone well, at least.

He looked up as the door of the house opened and Ron stepped into the room. When he saw Malfoy, he just grunted and walked past without speaking a word. Harry smiled at him. He knew it had taken Ron more of a struggle than he wanted to admit to accept Malfoy into his home.

"Thanks, Ron," he mouthed.

Ron shrugged and ducked into his own bedroom, shutting the door with a normal click rather than the slam Harry had expected. Harry leaned back against his seat. If he wanted to date Malfoy, then perhaps having him around Harry's friends would work out after all.

_I reckon the question is really whether he wants to date me, when I would probably drive him as mad with wanting to constantly look after him as I did Ginny._

Harry took a slow, deep breath. The facts remained the same no matter what he thought about, though: Malfoy was still infuriating, and Harry still had to get Draco and his parents out of legal trouble, rather than abandon them. He could have all the revelations in the world about himself, and they wouldn't change his duty.

Quicker than he expected, Malfoy surfaced from the Pensieve and stared at him. Harry raised his eyebrows. He was determined that Malfoy would be the first one to speak about what he'd seen.

"That's-impossible," Malfoy said. "At least, I would have thought it was impossible before now for you to construct political dialogue like that." He was looking cautiously at Harry, as if that difference changed everything else about Harry in the world.

Harry snorted. "So it seems you're presented with a stronger chance that the dreams are real glimpses into another universe, don't you think?" he asked cheerfully.

Malfoy only frowned at him, face gone cool. "I think you would prefer that," he said. "Can I ask why? You're acting more sensible about other things, but you still cling to this notion of its reality. Is it just that you don't want to look foolish for having invested so much of yourself in it?"

Harry shook his head impatiently. "It feels real. And yeah, I know that's not a convincing argument when you can't actually have the dreams yourself, but that's the way it is. It's like asking someone if the water he's drinking is real. It's an insulting question when he's felt it as much as I have."

Malfoy waited a few moments, as if expecting another answer from him, and then said, "Very well. I can't tell what Woburn means, or who he would be. The spell that puts words into someone else's head is one that many people know, but not many use it. It's considered rude, if not actually illegal the way that Legilimency is without Ministry permission."

Harry nodded. "And do you think that he could really know I'm from another universe, or does he mean something else?"

"I can't know that," Malfoy said. "I suspect he's probably an expert at controlling his features, and the glamour can't help."

Harry blinked. "He _is _wearing a glamour, then?"

"Oh, yes," Malfoy said. "You can see it, sometimes, trailing behind him like a sleeve when he makes certain gestures. It's not something most people would see," he added, with what seemed like unnecessary generosity. "But it's there."

Harry worried at that a moment, then gave up. He still thought his best chance was to corner Woburn and speak to him privately. "What about Discipula's secret? Does it involve the war?"

Now Malfoy frowned, rapping his knee impatiently as though he wanted to break through the skin to the bone. It reminded Harry of the gesture Draco had made, and he looked away. "That's what I don't understand. After hearing those words of Woburn's, I would have thought it was most likely that she was a Death Eater. It would make sense, then, that she's persecuting them, since one of them could betray her to her employers. But...I can't imagine that my father wouldn't know it, if that was the case. And he would certainly have used the knowledge to save himself."

Harry manfully resisted the temptation to point out that Malfoy had just acted as if the Lucius in the dreams was real. "All right. But something else about the war, something that doesn't involve her being a Death Eater? Could she have been an Auror who used Unforgivable Curses, or something like that?"

Malfoy made an irritated motion with one hand. "I doubt it. But how can I know? I still can't get into the dreams, and there are things that I simply can't know, because I don't know their full story."

"I could tell it to you," Harry offered. "Or put all the dreams in Pensieves."

"You'd leave out details, and we don't have the time for that. We still haven't figured out what the sounds you make in the dreams mean." Malfoy looked at him full-on. "This is quite a change of heart. What made you come to it?"

Harry let out a small sigh. He'd known that he would have to confess to Malfoy, but that made it no more enjoyable when the moment finally arrived. "I was thinking about what you said, that I only had the dreams in the first place because I need to be needed. And about some of the things that Draco in the dreams said, too." Malfoy made a face, but kept silent. "And I realized-that was the way I treated Ginny. I never let her care for me because I was so busy caring for her. Maybe the dreams did originate that way. But I want to solve the mystery of Discipula and the legal problem anyway. Knowing they're false doesn't make them less real to me."

"It should." Malfoy leaned forwards, looking as if various emotions fought beneath the surface of his face. "That's the way they draw you in. You can't do anything to help these people, you don't _have _to do anything to help these people, because they don't exist. Get that through your head, and I think that you'll do a lot better. Right now, you might admit intellectually that they're not real, but you want to stay in them. And so they grow new complexities to keep you there."

Harry stared at Malfoy. "I don't understand you," he said. "You're arguing that I'm using all these details of pure-bloods I only heard about once or maybe twice, coming up with alternate versions of all these people I know, and inventing mysteries _out of my own head? _I'm not a storyteller, Malfoy, and the only dreams I've had this vivid are the visions that Voldemort put there. I think it's more likely to be a combination of your spell and my mind and something else. Maybe the spell opened a door to another world that I wouldn't have seen otherwise."

Malfoy started to answer, but Harry only heard the breath escape his teeth before he paused. He froze so comprehensively that Harry at first thought that someone had cast a Body-Bind on him, but looking over his shoulder, he saw no one there.

"That's it," Malfoy whispered. "I should have seen it, but I didn't want to admit that there was something there. My own blindness."

"What?" Harry wanted to pound his hand against the chair, but he remained still and was proud of himself.

Malfoy leaned forwards and grinned at him. "I think I know a way that I can enter your dreams."


	22. A Barrister Across Universes

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Two-A Barrister Across Universes_

"Are you going to tell me what this famous idea is, now?" Harry tried to keep the snap out of his voice, because he could practically hear Hermione frowning behind him at the mere sound. But it _was _hard to hold back the fear that Malfoy was talking a load of bollocks about this idea that would let him enter Harry's dreams, because he hadn't said anything concrete since the initial pronouncement.

Malfoy grinned at him-cockily, the way Harry hated-and turned back to the blue potion brewing in the cauldron which sat on a marble block in front of him. Hermione leaned forwards over Harry's shoulder to watch. Harry ducked out from between them and paced around Malfoy's home, looking at things.

It was different being here when he didn't have the confidence of his anger driving him. Now he could notice the subtle, expensive good taste Malfoy had furnished the place with, and the portraits on the wall. There were pictures of his parents, which was to be expected, and other pale-haired people that Harry suspected were ancestors. But there was also one of a handsome dark-haired man who alternately played with a poodle and smiled at Harry and wore potions-stained robes. Perhaps he was a famous Potions master, but he looked too _kind _to be on Malfoy's walls.

Harry had to keep rethinking things in the last few days. It gave him a headache.

_All I wanted was a place in the world I understood after I quit Auror training, _he thought wistfully. _What I get is half-completed barrister training that probably won't serve me that well in my first case, a parcel of stupid bloody dreams, and a stupid bloody wanker who comes up with plans he won't share._

_ Oh, and revelations that I don't want. There's that._

But the problem was, bitching wouldn't make the dreams go away, or improve his relationship with Draco, or make his relationship with Malfoy settle into one definable pattern. Harry had to go ahead and act as though he understood everything and was committed to doing what Malfoy told him. It was the only way things would change.

_Well, things could change in the dreams on their own, I reckon. But if it really is my mind directing events there, I hate to see what it would come up with._

Harry turned back to the cauldron, feeling his face set in lines of new determination. He would do what he had to do. It was less hard than facing up to what Dumbledore had planned for him, really, or finding out that the old man had been less wise and benevolent than Harry thought he was. He'd walked into the Forbidden Forest to his _death_. Anything else he did had to be less difficult than that. Right?

_They don't tell you that living is the hard part._

The cauldron was cheerfully belching yellow smoke now. Harry tried to ignore the smell of rotten eggs it also produced, and settled into place beside Hermione. She gave him a quick approving glance, then reached out and squeezed his hand. Harry squeezed it back.

The potion abruptly solidified into what looked like a ton of egg yolk. Malfoy dipped in a ladle and pried loose a dripping chunk, dropping it into his mouth. He chewed it, flecks of foam falling from the sides of his lips. Harry bit down hard on his own lip. He didn't think either laughing or throwing up would help at this particular moment in time.

"Now you," he said, and held out the ladle to Harry.

"Hermione?" Harry asked without moving. "Is there anything poisonous in there?"

Malfoy's brow creased, and Hermione gave him a little shove. "I would have stopped him if he'd used anything like that, Harry," she said.

Harry nodded in resignation, took up the ladle, and used the edge to cut his own chunk of potion. He discovered that it was like trying to chew glue when he took the first bite, and the rotten-egg smell had its equivalent in a taste that crept down his throat like acid. He gagged, and then kept eating. Malfoy hadn't told him what the potion was intended to do, but Hermione trusted him, and he was trying to help Harry, and he had come back even past several brush-offs that Harry could offer him, and that had to mean something.

Well.

At least, Harry _thought _so. He reckoned it was possible that Malfoy was just a particularly good actor and persistent stalker.

When he swallowed, nothing remained of the potion but the watery horror in his mouth, and nothing happened. Harry made to spit, but Malfoy frowned at him, and so he swallowed again. "What's this supposed to do?" he asked.

"It'll allow me access to some of the deep parts of your mind, and it'll do the same thing for you with regards to mine," Malfoy said. "Among other things, it means that we'll share dreams and some memories. Nothing while we're conscious," he added, apparently because of Harry's expression. "It's most likely that you'll feel me, besides the dreams, in your mind during those moments when you thrash between sleep and waking, and feel as though you're falling."

"Along with all the other illusions," Harry muttered.

Malfoy's face worked through a complicated expression of his own before he said, "I wish I knew why you distrust me. Perhaps that's something I'll find out now that we have the potion linking us."

Harry stared at him. "Seriously, Malfoy? You want to know the answer to that question? Take your bloody _pick. _The curse you cast on me, your lies, your inconsistent behavior, the way you still-"

"I don't think this is helpful," Hermione intervened, with a stern glance at the both of them that made Harry want to ask her when she had forgiven Malfoy for cursing her best friend. Of course, the fascination of doing research with him probably outweighed that, he decided grimly. "Of course you believe different things about...recent events. But you should at least try the potion before you dismiss his help, Harry. And I recognized it. I wouldn't have let you drink it if I thought it would hurt you."

Harry rolled his eyes and turned away. "That doesn't change the fact that you still could have warned me," he said in a muffled tone. "You didn't. And Malfoy could have explained what the potion was before he made it or had me drink it. It was _simple_. But no, I have to be left in the dark."

"Potter," Malfoy said, coming forwards to stand next to him. Harry glared over his head at the wall. He didn't care if it made him look moody. The _point _was that Malfoy had kept secrets when there was no good reason to do so, except that it helped serve his bloody pride. "Harry. Listen to me. I didn't think you would agree to let me into your dreams this way, that it would be too intimate for you."

Harry flicked him a sharp glance that Malfoy stepped back from. "So you decided the way to get my cooperation was by lying and tricking me? As usual. I just wish someone considered me competent enough to make my own decisions." He widened his glare to include Hermione this time, but she put her head up and bore the stare with more equanimity than Malfoy did.

"I did," she said. "You made the decision to agree to Malfoy's plan, and to drink the potion without knowing what it was, didn't you?"

"But why _not _tell me?" Harry asked again. He felt less angry than weary, he realized. No matter what kinds of bargains he and Malfoy made, no matter how close they came to understanding each other, there was always something held in reserve. Some lie, some omission, some consideration that Harry wouldn't understand Malfoy's grand master plan. It didn't have to be that way, but Malfoy continued thinking it did in the face of the evidence. And now Hermione had joined him.

He looked back up in time to catch Hermione and Malfoy exchanging glances, and snorted. "Oh, yeah, this is about my need to be needed and your decision that I have to be treated like a child because I've acted like one," he said. "Fine, I reckon I can see that. But I started thinking the other day about how I treated Ginny, coddled her when she didn't want to be coddled and refused to accept her as an equal partner, and I can see now that I've reacted to Draco in the dreams the same way. I'm still coming to terms with that. I hadn't told you everything. But you didn't ask me or make arguments anymore, either. You just decided to go ahead and sweep me up in your plans, trick me and lie to me, because you thought it would be easier that way. For _you_, not me."

"Harry," Hermione said. Her voice was so low Harry couldn't tell what she was feeling. "I'm sorry you think that way."

Malfoy reached for him. Harry dodged his grasp and walked to the door. "We don't have to be close together for this potion to work, do we?" he asked over his shoulder. "It'll just automatically start doing what it needs to do when we go closer to sleep?"

"Yes," Malfoy said. "But Harry, I want to talk to you."

"You've said enough already." Harry opened the door and then paused, fighting the anger and weariness to say one last thing. "You wanted me to change. You kept telling me I was wrong. But you must have thought that I couldn't ever really change at all, because the arguments stopped awfully quickly. I'd prefer nagging to coercion, I really would."

He shut the door instead of slamming it.

* * *

Harry opened his eyes and turned to face Wellworth as she climbed onto the stand. He couldn't see Malfoy yet, he realized absently. He could feel Draco's stare on his back, though, and Discipula's stare from up in the stands.

It was useless to look around and hope that Malfoy would appear in some sufficiently invisible form. They hadn't even bothered to explain _that _much. Harry had waited, but neither Hermione nor Malfoy had approached him for the rest of the day. Ron had been the one to eat dinner with Harry and play a chess game with him before he went to bed.

_When this dream business is solved, then I'm going to have a long talk with Hermione. And I don't want to ever see Malfoy again._

He focused on Wellworth and asked, "Would you tell us how you first met Narcissa Malfoy?"

Wellworth was a lively and entertaining witness, at least if the calls from the crowd and the focused attention from Discipula were anything to go by, but Harry couldn't spend much time listening to her answers. He kept twitching, wondering if Malfoy would appear next to him, or in the stands-where it was possible Discipula would see him-or behind him, next to Draco. Or perhaps he would appear in Harry's lodgings. They'd never discussed this.

_You never gave him the chance to discuss this._

But Harry pushed the thought away. He'd forgiven Malfoy too easily for casting the spell on him that had started the dreams in the first place, he thought now. He was going to hold onto his anger. Malfoy could have _told _him what the potion did instead of clinging to his secret until the last moment.

Wellworth was a good witness, answering the questions as casually as she would have during daily conversation, and refusing to be flustered even when Discipula asked, earnestly, if she'd known Narcissa Malfoy so well because they were both Death Eaters. In fact, she laughed heartily at that one, slapping her hands together and rocking back and forth until Harry thought Discipula's smile grew a bit fixed.

"I never had the attention span for being a Death Eater," Wellworth said, shaking her head and wiping a tear from her eye. "Neither did Narcissa, poor dear thing." She leaned forwards and lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret with Discipula rather than the entire courtroom. "But she had plenty of people who were jealous of her beauty or her devotion to her husband. Notice how almost all the witnesses accusing her of being present at the battles were female? Jealousy, my dear, jealousy! We've encouraged it far too much among our pure-blood girls, and I, at least, am tired of it."

Discipula nodded at last and leaned back in her seat. The fixed smile continued, perhaps because she hated being called "my dear." Harry asked a few more questions that didn't make much impact and which he hadn't expected to, and then nodded at Wellworth to leave the stand. She pressed his wrist on the way, which Harry thought meant she, at least, was satisfied with her performance.

When he turned around, he saw Malfoy.

He was a hint, a shimmer, in the air, and even then you had to know what you were looking for. Harry thought he only saw him because he was sensitized to the bastard's bright hair and eyes. He stood with arms folded behind the chairs that held the witnesses, and if he had paid attention to the trial or Discipula at all, Harry couldn't tell it. His gaze was fixed on his dream-self as if nailed there.

Draco obviously hadn't noticed him. He was looking at Harry instead, with a scowl that made Harry wince.

For more than one reason, really. While he still hoped that Draco would forgive him for the crime of treating him like a child, Harry distrusted his own impulses now. _Why _did he want the forgiveness that badly? Did he want permission to treat Draco like a child, because Draco was leaning on him and trusting him implicitly, the way he had when the trial began?

_Distrusting yourself like this is a bitch._

Harry had to turn his back on the most interesting pair in the courtroom, though, and make a bow to Discipula and the watching members of the Wizengamot. "Thank you for allowing me to introduce the character witnesses for my clients," he said, the usual sort of formal nonsense that Hermione had taught him had to go here. "I hope you will pay heed to their words."

Discipula stood up and bowed back, which Harry hadn't thought would happen. "We shall consider all their words," she said, in a flawless voice that Harry would bet she saved for minutes like this. "Most _carefully_." She smiled at him, and her teeth glinted like iron before she sat back down.

Harry didn't know what that meant, and he wasn't going to try and figure it out. He went and sat down next to Draco, because he'd rather repair the one breach he was fairly certain of healing.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Draco jerked as though Harry had woken him from a reverie, although he'd been looking directly at Harry when he sat down. "For what?" he whispered back. "As far as I can tell, you defended us competently."

"Yeah, but I'm sorry for making you think you were a child and acting like an arse while I was doing it," Harry said, and then waited to see what that did. The temptation was strong to glance over his shoulder at Malfoy, but if he did, then he thought Draco's eyes would be drawn with his, and Draco would see him, too. And Harry had no idea at all how he was going to explain _that _one.

Draco closed his eyes and chewed on his lip. Harry listened to his opponent make a long, smooth speech about how individual witnesses had inconsistencies, but one could trust the composite of their testimony, and how horrible Death Eater crimes were, and how letting the guilty ones go would be a mockery of their victims' pain, and so on. Harry didn't think the speech was very good, himself, smooth or not, but then, it accorded more with the way that people thought in this world, so he would probably convince them.

"I just," Draco said. He stopped, groping for words. Harry was aware of Lucius's freezing glare on them, but he thought he managed to ignore it pretty well, and instead nodded, silently encouraging Draco. "I thought you were different from the others," Draco finished at last. "That you respected me in a way they didn't. My parents treated me like a child, Discipula and our other enemies barely paid attention to me-I was an afterthought-but you made me think that my words were important, and I could rescue my parents."

"I still believe you can," Harry said simply.

Draco shook his head. "Things have changed. When we got into the courtroom, I could see that you let your training take over. I couldn't match that. And you were humoring me when you told me that my words and memories were important. I don't like to be humored." His voice was soft, but savage.

Harry winced, thinking about his own experience of that from Hermione and Malfoy. They hadn't bothered talking to him about the potion, he knew, or explaining a bloody thing because they thought he would only resist, argue back, misunderstand. "They were important in helping me understand this place," he said. "I told you I was a stranger, and why."

"But I wanted to be important in my own right," Draco said. "Not just as an accessory to someone else. I've been an accessory to my father all my life. He thought I would be an appendage and his second youth, his obedient son. He didn't listen to what I dreamed of or wanted. When you told me I could be a hero, I believed you. At least it would be a new role. But now..." He shook his head and lapsed back into silence.

"He's right, you know. You did treat him like that."

The barely-breathed words that made the hair on the back of Harry's neck stand upright were Malfoy's, he knew. He did his best not to hear them as he kept his gaze fixed on Draco. "But it's true," he said. "I couldn't have accomplished my defense or found the witnesses without you."

"But it's still only _helping_." Draco's hand curled into a loose fist on his knee. "When does my turn come to be the one who makes the difference? When is someone going to look at me and see someone who can help him, rather than someone who needs it?"

"Mr. Evans, are you ready to give your speech?"

Discipula was looking down on him with such cold politeness that Harry was sure it wasn't the first time she'd asked that. He rose to his feet, looking down helplessly at Draco. Draco looked back, mouth turned down, and then away, denying Harry a smile or a last moment of eye contact that might have done them both some good.

Harry moved away from the chairs. Malfoy breathed on the back of his neck again, implying that he had come with Harry. The only good thing about that, Harry thought, was that it at least meant he wasn't staring at Draco anymore.

He really, really wasn't in the mood to give a speech.

_There are times that you won't be, _Hermione's voice said in his mind, in answer to his thoughts. _And you have to anyway, because your clients deserve the best defense that you can give them._

Harry nodded, lifted his head, and began.

"You have seen for yourself the numbers and quality of witnesses produced to implicate the Malfoys," he told the crowd that waited around the perimeters of the courtroom, staring at him like hounds eager for his words. It was a look he had normally seen only on the faces of reporters, and Harry turned his head away so that he could speak to the members of the Wizengamot instead. They would be the ones casting the deciding votes. "You've noted the inconsistencies in their stories, and the expressions on their faces. I don't know about you, but I noticed a lot of jealousy, a lot of glee, a lot of greed for someone else's pain."

Discipula shifted as if she would speak, but the witch in yellow robes caught her eye and frowned at her, and she subsided. Harry hoped that Malfoy had noticed that. It was that kind of thing he was _supposed _to be in the dream to observe, rather than how Harry treated Draco. He would get plenty of flak from his own mind for that last part, thank you.

"These witnesses didn't speak up because they wanted to see justice done," Harry said. "They spoke up because they want to see the Malfoys arrested and condemned. Even someone who was just eighteen years old when this bloody war happened, even someone who was only supporting her husband." Draco and probably Narcissa were glaring at him now, but Harry didn't think he could afford to surrender such an important part of the defense. "Why did none of them come forwards immediately after the war and give their testimony then? Why didn't any of them push for a trial, if they were so sure that only their words were needed to condemn the Malfoys? They don't _want _justice. They don't want prosecution, for that matter. They want persecution."

Some people in the crowed were calling out to him now, and more than one of the witnesses looked offended. Harry ignored that. They weren't the people he needed to convince.

"I still think that no matter what they've done, everyone deserves a fair trial," Harry said. "Otherwise, we're no better than Voldemort and the Death Eaters, who killed people they thought deserved to die, without a trial, without a jury, often without giving them a chance to defend themselves." He knew that he was taking a risk with that one, since he didn't know the history of the war in this world, but if things had been significantly different in that respect, he knew he would have picked up on it from the other witnesses' testimony. "We say we're different. We say we value peace, and justice, and what's right. We _don't _if we just let everything go to pieces the moment someone we don't like is involved."

"You don't understand!" one of the Wizengamot members in the back yelled, not paying any attention to the way the witch in yellow robes frowned at him. "You weren't here for the war. This isn't a matter of _dislike._"

Harry snorted. "Because hatred is so much better?"

He had a few people laughing now. Harry half-glanced at Discipula, and then decided that he would just keep his eyes away from her. She was unnervingly good at looking blank. He didn't need anything else coming along to upset him right now.

"I ask you to consider your own hearts," he said. "I ask you to consider whether you are judging the Malfoys more harshly than you would someone else committing the same crime. The rumors are too thick now for fairness otherwise, never mind justice. The truth of what my clients did is buried under snow and fog. It would be best if they were allowed a new chance, a new life."

There was a bit of applause when he sat back down, not much. Harry didn't know where Malfoy was, and he didn't care. He only cared that Draco had kept his head turned away, and that made Harry feel simultaneously sick and depressed, and guiltily relieved. Maybe he _should _let Draco go and stop trying to pursue a relationship with him now that he knew how he tended to treat the people who needed him.

Malfoy bent down and whispered in his ear, "I know who Woburn is."


	23. Confronting Two Worlds

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Three-Confronting Two Worlds_

Harry's back went stiff, but he didn't allow himself to turn towards Malfoy. He waited until the Wizengamot members had begun to depart the courtroom, instead, and then leaned forwards and whispered to Woburn, "Sir, would you please stay? I've been thinking about what you said earlier."

Woburn turned towards him, so haughty that Harry had to suppress a grimace. The lightless eyes regarded his expression, his hands, the clasp on his robe, or perhaps something else beyond all those. Harry had the impression that Woburn would have liked to make Harry think that he was looking at his soul.

But he held firm, and in the end Woburn made a weary gesture with one hand and stood. "As you wish, then," he said. "Follow me."

Harry did so, with nods to McGonagall, Wellworth, and Narcissa. Lucius was too smugly self-contained to nod to, and Draco still wasn't looking at him. Harry was aware of Malfoy drifting along with him, no more than a whisper of breath. Well, that was fine. He could give Harry the necessary knowledge to confront Woburn, always assuming that Woburn didn't have the magic to see him.

In the corridor just beyond the courtroom was a small alcove with a shelf of stone in front of a window. Harry had noticed it and thought it was reserved for displaying treasures that the Wizengamot wanted to make sure others noticed, such as the mutilated heads of their enemies. Woburn turned in front of the shelf and faced him with the same devouring silence that he had used so far.

Harry felt the faint, cold whisper of Malfoy's breath on the back of his neck, but he said nothing as yet, so Harry went ahead with the question that Woburn would be expecting. "What did you mean, when you said that you knew who I was?" he asked.

"I do not know where you come from." Woburn's voice was precise and controlled, his words slicing air like pendulums. "I do not know how you hid yourself, or were hid, or why you chose to show yourself now, and in such a humble guise. But I know your genetic heritage. It is stamped plainly on your face for anyone to see."

Harry didn't need the arrow-like warning touch from Malfoy on the back of his neck to keep his mouth shut. Woburn wasn't going to trick Harry into revealing what he might not already know. Harry just waited, instead, silently challenging Woburn to prove what he said about Harry's heritage being stamped on his face.

Woburn accepted the challenge with a sneer of disdain that made Harry's brain briefly flare. For a moment, he thought the glamour thinned and he could see the face beneath it...

But it vanished, or the moment hurried past, or the glamour thickened, and then he was listening to Woburn say, "You are the son of James Potter and Lily Evans. How that happened, I do not know, as all the world says that Lily _Potter_ perished before she bore her child." He paused, and Harry felt the weight of his contempt before he added, "But as all the world says, all the world may be wrong."

Harry shrugged. "And why should it matter? Sir? The mystery of where I come from is my own mystery, and it can't matter to the Malfoys' trial. It can't matter to _you_, or you wouldn't have agreed to be a witness for Lucius."

"Do not presume to ascribe motives to me." Woburn's voice sank, and Malfoy touched the back of Harry's neck in warning again. "You will not understand them, you _cannot _understand them, given the small and limited functions of your brain."

Harry shook his head. "I don't understand the point of this digression, that's for bloody sure," he said. Woburn's eyelids flickered at his language, which Harry thought was the most interesting part of the charade so far. "Why figure it out? Why help Lucius? Why tell me that you knew?"

"Because you must not be allowed to imagine that you have got away with it," Woburn said. "And because one at least of your enemies must know. Nora Potter would not have visited the Ministry for no reason. She rarely leaves her home now."

Harry shook his head. "It still doesn't have anything to do with you. Yes, Discipula knows." Malfoy pressed down harder on the back of his neck this time, but Harry ignored him. Woburn had something against Discipula, that much was clear from the barbs they'd traded during the trial. Perhaps he would help Harry if he hated her. "But I think she only wants to make me uncomfortable. If I'm not, then she'll have to try something else."

Woburn stared blankly at him. Harry grinned back. It wouldn't do anything to help Draco and his family, but _damn_, it felt good to confound the supposedly "incomprehensible" man.

"There are other reasons," Woburn said at last. "Reasons you cannot understand. I will be willing to do...more...if you tell me where you come from and how you managed to remain hidden for so long."

Harry smiled again. Discipula didn't respect or fear him enough, but Woburn would make a nice substitute. "What kind of more? I believe in negotiating for specific things."

"I will help you against Discipula," Woburn said. "You have no chance of freeing any of that family, even Draco, by fair means. There are ways to expose her, however, and to bring her down in such a way that the Wizengamot will turn their attention on her, and few will care about the Malfoys' sentence. I know what she fears. I know what she hates." He smiled, a dead shark's smile. "I know what she cannot stand to have known and live."

"Why haven't you used that?" Harry asked. He had to be careful here, there were so many things he didn't know, but this one at least he was fairly certain of. "If you could _force _her to cooperate, she must give you things that you want more than you want the Malfoys' freedom."

Woburn tilted his head back. "I prefer to work from the shadows," he said. "I came out of retirement to defend Lucius for my own reasons. But if I exert my power too regularly, then it would cause others to see me as less powerful and important than I truly am."

Harry blinked, even though Malfoy was now pressing so hard into the back of his neck that it made him want to shrug and flinch and reveal Malfoy's presence to Woburn. "You sound like an arsehole, frankly," he said.

Woburn went still again. Harry didn't know who he thought that would impress. If he knew who Harry was, then he probably had contempt for his father anyway, for marrying someone who wasn't pure-blood.

"You would not understand," Woburn said at last. "It is perfectly obvious that you were not reared in our society, which makes me discard the first four notions I had of your hiding place. Be careful, or you may reveal all and give yourself nothing to bargain with."

Harry waited, wondering if Malfoy would whisper this wonderful secret about who Woburn was to him now. But he didn't, so Harry sighed and said, "I still want to know what would be so objectionable about working openly against Discipula."

Woburn made a negating motion with one hand. "These questions are beside the point. Do we have a bargain or not?"

Malfoy must have shifted forwards sometime in the last few minutes, though Harry didn't know how he had done it without Woburn seeing him. He hissed into Harry's ear, "Do you know who you're playing with? This is Professor Snape!"

Harry clenched one fist in shock, but tried not to give away anything in his face. Of course, Woburn moved a step back from him and touched a slender ebony ring that sat on the third finger of his left hand. It probably did something like fire darts of magical energy, Harry thought dazedly.

_Snape._

That explained the dark eyes, the way that he always seemed to know when Harry was lying, and the sense of familiarity that Harry had experienced around him a time or two. It explained why he would know Lucius, and why he might be willing to help him. He could owe Lucius a life-debt, or—and this was more likely, Harry realized, as ideas seemed to unfold in his head and become new ones at the same time—Lucius was the one who had made the Woburn glamour available to Snape in the first place. Of course he would come out of hiding to defend the one who could expose him.

It didn't explain how he knew Discipula. It did explain why he was so interested in James and Lily Potter.

_And it means that they died because of you, you bastard, and this time, I died with them._

But Harry swallowed his raw fury. That was something Hermione had taught him how to do by having him read all those historical cases where injustice was served or something horrible had to happen to establish a legal precedent. He could put aside the anger and react in some other way _if he wanted. _He just didn't often want to.

But this was more like a legal situation than a personal one. Harry reminded himself, again, of how little he knew of the history of this other universe. Snape might not have tattled on Dumbledore here, since Voldemort had attacked earlier. Or Neville was meant to be the Chosen One all along. Or the baby his mother was pregnant with might not have been him.

But it did explain a lot of things, and Harry felt more confident now. He shrugged, stared a little off to the side of Snape's face—this one probably also had the Legilimency, although why he hadn't read the answers to his questions out of Harry's head, Harry didn't know—and said, "All right. My questions don't matter. I'll tell you the truth, as long as you tell me what you know about Discipula."

Snape—Harry couldn't think of him as Woburn no matter what he looked like, now—stared hard at him. Harry stared back and said nothing. He didn't think he had to. Snape had often used silence to intimidate him or trick him into talking more than he should, and it felt wonderful to return the favor, for once.

"Very well," Snape said at last, with a heaviness in the back of his voice that Harry knew was a threat. Well, he could always vanish out of the dreams if he had to, and in the meantime, Snape might have solid information that could help him. "But this is not the place to have this conversation, near the center of her power."

Harry gave him a meaningless smile. "I agree, not when she would be happy to know where I hid, as well, so that she could track me back and harm my family." That would lay down a false trail for Snape; Harry wasn't sure how much of the truth he wanted to tell him yet. "Shall we meet at my lodgings tonight?"

Snape laughed without humor. "And you think they are not being watched? That building is run by the Ministry. I am surprised that you have no felt their spies poking at your wards already."

"One of the men who works there has no reason to love the Ministry, even if they employ him," Harry said, thinking of Ron. "He would be glad of something to do that might make him more important than he is right now, more valued, and something that uses his intelligence. I think we can give it to him."

Once again Snape considered him in silence, and once again Harry held his tongue against the temptation to start talking. Finally, Snape inclined his head and said, "You are more of an observer of people than I thought you were."

"I don't think that would be difficult," Harry said, and then restrained himself again, because Malfoy was poking him. This Snape wouldn't have dealt with Harry in school, and wouldn't automatically hate him. He should try to keep Snape as an ally instead of driving him away, if he could. "Anyway, what time should we meet in the building?"

"At five after seven," Snape said, and then swished away down the corridor. Now that he watched him move in some detail, Harry couldn't believe that he hadn't noticed his identity before, on his own. There was no one else who could make their robes swirl like that, or walk with that combination of grace and arrogant dignity, as though the world had unjustly ignored him.

Then again, Malfoy had said that he wore a glamour, and it seemed to fool people like McGonagall who must have seen him before. Harry wouldn't feel that bad about it.

He had plenty of other things to feel bad about, he thought as he closed his eyes and yielded to the pull that dragged him towards the surface of the dream.

* * *

Fleeting images of Malfoy scattered through his head: Malfoy sitting with his feet propped up on a stool in the Slytherin common room, telling stories to scare the first-years; Malfoy dropping back to earth after trying out for Seeker in second year, smugly glad that he would win the position on undisputed talent rather than just because his father had paid for new brooms; Malfoy staring at Harry's back with his face covered in red blotches. That last time could have been any of several. Harry had the feeling that he'd been a familiar visitor to Malfoy's mind in other ways before taking this potion.

Then he jerked himself out of the connection, and opened his eyes to see Ron standing over his bed, staring down at him.

"You moaned his name again," Ron said. "Do you _have _to?"

"First name or last name?" Harry asked, because now that he was awake and didn't need Malfoy to spy on his dreams, he remembered that he had reason to be angry at the git.

Ron reared back and stared at him, as if startled that he would make a distinction. But Harry kept his gaze focused and as calm as possible, so after a moment Ron sniffed and said, "The first name."

Harry sighed in relief. As long as he could keep the two versions of Malfoy separated and he only talked about or to Draco where others could hear him, then he would think that there was some hope. He didn't know _why _he moaned Draco's name in his dreams, any more than he knew why his hands twitched, but that problem could be solved later. "Thanks, Ron."

Ron nodded doubtfully back, then left the room. Harry sat where he was and shook his head.

Snape was Woburn. All right, so some things made sense now, although Harry didn't know that that secret was the most important one he could take out of the dreams. He would be more interested in finding out what Discipula had done and wanted, and he had hoped that Malfoy would be watching her instead.

_Malfoy._

Harry stood up and deliberately began to dress, wondering for a moment if Malfoy remained in his head and could sense what he was doing.

They had some things to talk about.

* * *

"I expected you."

Malfoy had opened the door with dark circles under his eyes. Harry steeled himself to resist that, though. Malfoy could have put them there with a glamour, or he could have lain awake last night because of guilt. Harry hoped it was the last that was true.

He stepped into the main room and turned his back on the portraits on the wall. Of course, that brought him into sight of the cauldron where Malfoy had brewed the bloody potion. Well, if he had to face one or the other, it would be the one that didn't have a face to stare disdainfully back at him.

"I saw many strange things in your mind," Malfoy began, with a care that seemed odd to Harry. After everything that had happened between them, _that _was what he chose to treat as fragile?

"I didn't see a whole lot in yours," Harry said, "except that you're more insulted by me than I thought you were, and a better flyer. But I want to know why you were looking at Snape and Draco instead of Discipula, and why you think that brewing that potion and feeding it to me without telling me or concealing Snape's identity for a while are good ideas."

Malfoy shifted his stance. Harry cocked his head. That was another difference between him and Draco, come to think of it: Harry thought that he could read every expression the moment it appeared on Draco's face, which reflected things like glass. He didn't know why Malfoy acted the way he did, more than half the time.

"I couldn't speak to you right away," Malfoy said, "not when there was a chance that he might hear me, and not when I still hoped that you might figure it out on your own. I thought it obvious once I saw the way he behaved. His eyes were exactly the same."

"Excuse me for not spending as much time staring into his eyes and swooning as you obviously did," Harry said, and watched Malfoy flush. "And stick to the subject. Why are you _keeping _things from me? Why did you lie about the spell that caused the dreams in the first place?"

"I really thought it hadn't worked," Malfoy said. "And I knew that you would hate me instead of giving me a chance if I told the truth."

"Then I told you I hated you, and yet continued to accept your help," Harry said promptly. "Why did you _keep _lying?"

"I didn't lie," Malfoy said.

"Then what would you call it?"

"I omitted the truth."

"_That's lying,_" Harry pointed out, with what he thought was the quite commendable restraint of not destroying the windows.

Malfoy shook his head, a curl of hair falling in his face. "I just—I couldn't trust you to react the right way," he murmured. "I still don't. Half the time we can have civil conversations and exchange secrets, but the other half…you speak to me as though I was something you found under your boot this morning."

"Because you _cursed me_," Harry explained. He heard his voice rising and forced it back down, to a growl, because he would take the shrillness but not the anger out of it. Malfoy _needed _to hear the anger. "How am I supposed to just get over that? I accepted your help because I thought I needed it, and now I think I need it less than I need to be away from you and free of you."

Malfoy swallowed, looking stricken. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I didn't think about it from your perspective. I only know that I want you more than you'll ever want me, even if you forgive me, and I was trying to redress the power imbalance. Keeping things from you meant I was still necessary."

Harry stared at him, then shook his head. "And that's the heart of what I don't understand. Why do you want someone who rejects you?"

"Believe me, if I could get away from this ridiculous obsession, don't you think I would have?" Malfoy looked disgusted. "You and your ridiculous savior complex, your drive to help people whether they're real or not, your eyes that are the most _unnecessary _shade of green, and your face that looks twisted-up and petulant half the time? Those aren't the ingredients of a long and successful love affair, which I never asked for, or a long and successful marriage, which I did. But they're _what's there. _You're the one who keeps bringing me back. And I know you don't mean to do it," he added bitterly when Harry opened his mouth. "But it happens. So I keep things from you because I want to keep you in my debt, and see you look at me in awe, and have your attention, just once. I lie because it's important to me."

Harry ran his fingers through his hair. He didn't know what to say, except the truth. It would probably hurt Malfoy even more, but at this point, Harry thought everything would.

"I can't be with someone who won't stay honest," he said. "I can't be with someone who treats me like a child. I've had too many people in my life who did that."

"I know." Malfoy's face twisted in a complex expression. "I saw some of your memories when you were falling asleep, the way you saw some of mine as you woke up. Harry, why did you never tell anyone about your relatives?"

Harry gaped at him. Malfoy raised his hands defensively. "I'm telling you that I saw them!" he said.

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his hands through his hair again. This was spiraling out of control. He'd meant to argue, he'd meant to ask Malfoy for information, he'd meant to persuade Malfoy away from him, and now he meant to get Malfoy off the subject. "Look," he said. "It doesn't matter. I still want to know if you saw anything about Discipula in the dream that would tell you what her secret was. Or did you spend all your time staring at Snape and yourself? That would be like you."

"You _prick_," Malfoy said, with what sounded like wonder rather than anger in his voice, and so made the insult even more confusing. "You didn't tell anyone because you're ashamed."

"I am _not!_" Harry dropped his hands and stared at him. "My friends know what happened. The wizarding world doesn't, because I don't want it splashed on the front of every paper and every witch crooning at me in a motherly fashion. Did you see anything about her or not?"

"Nothing that would tell me beyond doubt what her secret was." Malfoy leaned forwards and stared at him. "I'll need another visit to your dreams, and that means that I'll probably learn more about your relatives. Can you stand that?"

"Ignore the memories," Harry said harshly. His heart was beating fast, the way it sometimes did in unexpected situations. _Why does everything keep turning into a conversation about me and Malfoy? It should be about Draco and Discipula. _The reminder that he himself had started the conversation off in that direction did nothing for his temper. "Just—that's all I want you to do."

"I think you need to talk to someone about them," Malfoy whispered. "They sit like _stones _in your mind, weighing you down. And I think they might explain a lot about you. If I knew more—"

"_That's what I don't fucking want!_"

Malfoy stepped back a pace from him as if surprised by his outburst, and Harry seized the chance to have his say. "You've cursed me, you've lied to me, you've given me a potion that I would have refused if I knew the full truth, and now you're prying into my memories. Give it up. Stay away from me. Find someone else. Wrestle with your—I don't know, your mind or whatever it is until you overcome this freakish attraction to me. Go _away._" He tamed his tongue with a harsh breath and said, "Fine. You didn't find out anything about Discipula. You don't need to come into the dreams again, because Snape is going to tell me, but I reckon you'll do it anyway."

And he hurried out, before Malfoy could say anything, before he could defend himself, before the chorus of different voices in his head could convince him of whatever it was they wanted him to believe.

He wanted to be alone, or he wanted to be with people who didn't lie to him. Was that so hard to accept?


	24. As At the Crack of a Whip

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Four—As At the Crack of a Whip_

"Do you understand, Hermione?"

"I understand, Harry." She spoke with a constrained voice, staring away from him. As Harry watched, the clench of her hand on the back of the dining room chair turned white.

"As long as you do," he said, not really placated, and turned away from her. The creak of his steps on the kitchen floor was loud in the silence. He kept waiting, listening, for the moment when she would turn away from him and walk into her own bedroom, or tell him to get out of their house and not come back. The way Harry felt at the moment, he would be more than happy to stop living with Ron and Hermione and start living on his own, although it had felt like a fate worse than death when he first broke up with Ginny.

_Maybe living on my own would tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do next._

"Did you say that to Malfoy, too?" Hermione asked, confounding all his expectations of her as she so rarely did. Harry was usually startled by how smart she was, not how brave or stubborn.

"Say what to Malfoy?" Harry stared at the wall and decided that he _could _remember times that she was both brave and stubborn at Hogwarts. When she'd taken his Firebolt away despite his yelling at her. When she'd stood up to him and told him that he was acting stupid or crazy or too angry. He just wished that she hadn't decided to do it _now_, when he'd exhausted his store of words and only wanted to think.

"Did you tell him that you distrust him because he'd lied to you?" Hermione still hadn't apologized not telling him about the potion, Harry noticed, but when he turned around, he discovered that he didn't actually need her to. Her eyelashes trembled, and her clenched hand looked as if it hurt. His tirade at her had affected her a lot more than he'd realized.

She was one of his best friends, after all. He really didn't want to lose her, or make her feel bad, or drive her away from him. He just wished that people would _treat him like an adult_, for once. He'd told Malfoy that he realized he put other people first too much of the time and that he was working to correct it. Why did Malfoy still persist in treating him like this? And why did Hermione side with Malfoy instead of Harry?

"Yes," Harry said. "Well, more than that. I told him that I didn't ever want to see him again."

Hermione jerked with what looked like genuine surprise. "What?" she asked. "Why would you say that?"

"Because it's true." Harry's head was throbbing. He looked longingly at the kitchen door, but he couldn't leave in the middle of the conversation. It would cause a breach between him and Hermione, and maybe between him and Ron, that would be hard to repair. Ron would understand Harry getting angry at Hermione for not telling him about the potion, but not walking away from her when she was this upset. "He admits he's obsessed with me. That's not healthy for him. He won't treat me like an adult. That's not healthy for me. He seems to think he can fix or heal me by stopping these dreams, but his methods to do it are all worse than the original curse was. At least the curse only caused the dreams. The actions he's taken since then are ripping up my peace."

"Some of that comes from your not knowing how to feel about him," Hermione said softly.

"Yes, it does," Harry said. "And I don't _want _to be told the way that I should feel about him, and I don't want to feel any more. I'm leaving, all right? I'll go to the office and get some actual _work _done." He crossed to the door in long, springing steps, wishing he didn't feel like he was running away.

"Harry."

Though it was possibly the stupidest thing he had ever done, Harry paused and waited reluctantly with one hand on the door.

"I can't tell you to give Malfoy a chance when he's irritated you so," Hermione said. "And I am sorry about not telling you what the potion was and did. But I do wish that you would think about what you said you learned from the dreams. They're more important for what they can teach you than for themselves."

"I've learned that I treat people like children," Harry said. "And that some of them lie to me in return. How is that a revelation worth having?" He tugged open the door and was gone before Hermione could react.

He spent that afternoon bending over the law and history books until his eyes blurred through staring at the page, and finally realized that it was midnight when Hermione's otter Patronus appeared in front of him, swishing its tail and staring at him. It spoke in her voice with an inflection that could have been worry or anger. "Harry, are you coming home tonight? We'll leave the wards down for you."

The Patronus disappeared. Harry buried his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Yes, perhaps he ought to go home and have the dreams in his own bed, but he didn't see why it would do him so much harm to sleep here. The dreams were coming anyway. And he was probably too tired to Apparate without Splinching himself.

A pile of books didn't make the most comfortable perch, but Harry could lean his cheek on them, steady the pile with a few more books planted around the bottom, and relax. He was so tired that he thought he could have fallen asleep with his cheek on a sharp corner.

Just before the dreams swept in, he remembered that he hadn't gone away and thought like he'd wanted to; he'd drowned thought by immersion in cases instead. There was probably something significant and psychological there. Hermione or Malfoy would know. But then they would nod wisely and not share whatever thoughts they'd had with him, so Harry felt better not giving a fuck.

He closed his eyes, and Snape was there.

* * *

"You feel that we can involve him?" Snape gave a quick look of distaste in Ron's direction.

Harry nodded and looked at Ron as well. Ron stared at him, his eyebrow rising—of course, as far as he knew, Snape was still Woburn, and he must wonder what they were doing here in the first place—before he nodded and shrugged.

Harry decided to take that as a sign that he could trust Ron. He said, "I do," and turned back to Snape. "You had some things to explain about Discipula's background."

"A question for a question." Snape seemed calmer with a glass of Firewhisky in front of him and an attentive audience, even one that stared. He drew Woburn's cloak around him and sipped once at the drink. Harry reckoned the glamour would have fooled anyone who didn't know what was behind it, but right now, he could only see the familiar things: the way that Snape's mouth bent as if everything he tried tasted sour, the way the dark eyes flashed with suppressed emotion when he looked at Harry, and the way his fingers curled on the table and then flexed open again. "I will ask you one, and you will respond."

Harry nodded. "All right. What does—"

"And you're going to _trust _him?" Ron asked, his voice rising as if he thought that Harry was going to jump off a cliff instead. "This is a pure-blood fanatic! Someone who'd probably ignore you if you were sprawled on the floor with a slit throat!"

Harry smiled at Ron. He knew they weren't friends in this universe, not truly, but he felt the same pressure of warmth against his heart that he always had when Ron came to his defense. "I know he would, if we were dealing with each other as normal people," he said. "But I'm a barrister and he's a witness, and he has important information."

Ron stared at Snape again. Snape gave him a look of such perfect disdain that Harry liked to think he would have known who Snape was if he saw it without Malfoy's guidance—

_God, that rankles._

-but he had to admit that he probably wouldn't. Snape turned back to Harry and said, "Ask your question."

"What is it that Discipula is so afraid that you'll tell everyone?" Harry asked. "Is it the same thing that makes her want to execute Death Eaters without trials?"

"Very good," Snape said, in a voice that brought back echoes of classrooms and corridors and detentions. "Yes. She fears that they could tell others of her presence at several battles against the Dark Lord."

"Was she a secret agent for the Ministry?" Harry asked. "Or a Death Eater herself?" He didn't really believe in the last possibility, since it seemed impossible that Lucius _wouldn't _have blackmailed her, but that seemed to be the direction Snape's words were tending.

"Neither," Snape said, with some relish. "Have you never wondered why there was such secrecy around the last battle, why the public was assured that the Dark Lord was dead but no details of his demise were released?"

Harry hadn't, actually, since he hadn't been born in this world and his own battle with Voldemort had played out rather differently, but he nodded as though he wanted to know. Ron was leaning forwards with one arm braced against the counter, all pretense of distrust in what Snape was saying forgotten.

"She defeated him," Snape said. "Not that prat Longbottom, the helpless toy and tool that the Ministry has chosen to use as a front. _She _cast the spell that brought the Dark Lord down, and then cast another that blurred the event in the minds of those who were there. Save the Death Eaters, of course, whose Marks protected them against such things. And those who had the foresight to have defended their minds." His gaze passed swiftly across Ron, who wouldn't know that he belonged to both groups.

Harry sagged back in his seat. He had thought that Discipula was a politician, a bitch, a manipulator, and an enemy, but he hadn't pictured her in the role of heroine.

"That's impossible," Ron whispered. "She would have claimed the position of—of Witch-Who-Lived. I _know _she would have. How can she stand to sit back and see all the honors go to Longbottom?" His voice had an old sediment of bitterness. Given what he had said about his brothers, Harry knew why. This Ron would never have been able to give up the chance to stand out and prove those who had sneered at him wrong.

"That," Snape said, "I do not know. Except that popular prejudice is hard to fight, and there were those who had been proclaiming Longbottom a hero since birth. To tell them they were wrong would not have resulted in a stainless welcome for her. She would have had to face confusion, wonder, anger, and disbelief. Though some would have supported her, they would not have showered her with rewards for challenging their preconceived notions." His eyelids drooped almost shut. "The bearers of an uncomfortable truth are nearly never rewarded for it."

_You might be speaking from experience, _Harry thought, _but if you betrayed my parents—and me, or the unborn version of me—to their deaths, I still don't forgive you. Bastard._

"But why did they think he was a hero in the first place?" Ron asked, blinking rapidly. He was asking the questions Harry would have asked, so he stayed silent and let Ron speak. "How did he survive the Killing Curse?"

"I have examined the site of the Longbottom house," Snape said, "in the early hours after the destruction, when the Dark Lord was gone but before the rescuers of the infant arrived. There is a set of footprints unaccounted for there, ones that belong to a witch who walks lightly. Yes, the Dark Lord could have brought one of the rare female Death Eaters with him," he added, as Ron opened his mouth again. "But I happen to know that he did not."

"How could you know that?" Ron focused on Snape, his eyes narrowing as though he was trying to work his way around a hangover. A knowledge hangover, maybe, Harry thought. This had to be changing quite a few conceptions of his world for him, while Harry was simply surprised that Discipula had done it in the first place. "Why would you go there?"

Snape turned one hand upwards as though he was cupping a glass of water in it. "I think that you must simply leave me my sources," he said smoothly. "I have access to knowledge that most people do not."

_Yes, you do, _Harry thought. He could believe Snape's words, although he would have been happier with either outside confirmation or a likely reason for Discipula to do this in the first place. He leaned forwards. "I thought you wanted to ask me questions, too?"

Snape jerked a little and turned to face him. Harry hid a smile. Snape had probably become caught up in demonstrating his knowledge and forgotten their original bargain. As remembrance returned, his face hardened while he stared at Harry.

"Yes," he said. "How did you escape destruction, and where did you hide?"

"With my mother's Muggle relatives," Harry said easily. He doubted that anyone knew about the Dursleys, although this Snape probably would still have known Petunia when she was a young child. _Or would he? If the prophecy is different and I died when I was a baby—or unborn—then everything could be different. _"No one bothered to check on them. They were distant from the wizarding world, and they were bothered by what they saw as my freakishness. A group of wizards much like the Order of the Phoenix, but distrustful of Dumbledore, came and took me away from them when I was eleven. I couldn't have gone to Hogwarts, of course, because most people didn't even know that I'd been born before the attack came, but they raised and trained me. "

Snape stared at him. Harry stared serenely back. He had thought of this lie while he was still awake. It sounded ridiculous, but on the other hand, he thought that would make it work on someone like Snape, who saw conspiracies everywhere and would think other people were hiding dark secrets because _he _was hiding them.

"And then?" Snape's voice was strangled.

"And then what?" Harry could see why Snape and Discipula both played games like this, pretending not to know certain things and hiding them when they did. It was fun.

"Who are they?" Snape demanded. "Where did they raise you? Your eyes and your face would have given you away at once to most people in the wizarding world."

"Hold on," Ron said. "Who are you supposed to be?"

Harry looked at his friend for a moment—well, the one who stood in the place of his friend in this universe—and thought about lying. Well, lying more than he was already doing, anyway.

But he remembered that Snape knew enough to spot any lie in a moment, so he gave up the temptation and answered, "I would be Harry Potter."

"_Would _be," Snape echoed, his eyes half-closed as though he needed to shut out the world to absorb the impact of this knowledge. "What an interesting choice of words."

Harry continued looking at Ron, because he knew a nervous glance now would only give him away. Besides, he had to watch the dawning of disbelief on Ron's face, followed by a quick examination of his eyes and features.

"Bloody hell," Ron breathed at last. "My parents have a photograph of the Potters—and yeah, her eyes—and his face—yeah, I could see it." He shook his head. "Why haven't you come out of hiding?"

"Because the people who raised me knew that something was wrong with my parents' deaths, and they never knew who had taken me to my Muggle relatives' house," Harry said. "I never heard about these footprints that you claim were there at the site of the Longbottoms' attack and would prove that Discipula interfered—" He nodded at Snape. "But they suspected something else, I think, without knowing what direction to send their suspicion in. So they kept me away from the wizarding world. Even letting me go to Hogwarts would have been a risk, at least if they didn't disguise me with glamours. And most people can see through a glamour with a bit of work."

Snape glanced sharply at him. Harry looked back innocently. He wouldn't say anything to reveal Snape to Ron, not least because Ron would go off in an entirely new direction and nothing would get resolved. He just wanted to remind Snape that he still knew the truth, and Snape shouldn't get as cocky as he might like to.

"Wow," Ron breathed. "How different would all our lives have been if you were among us the way you were supposed to be?"

"I don't know," Harry said with perfect truth. He controlled the impulse to say _better_, because if he'd grown up completely without parents and with no idea that he could have defeated Voldemort, he would probably have been ready to worship Longbottom and ignore Muggleborns with the rest of them. He turned back to Snape. "Does that answer your question?"

"Since you will not give me names," Snape murmured, and then waited. Harry shook his head firmly. Snape gave him a thin smile that Harry also liked to think he would have recognized, glamour or no glamour, but he didn't know that for certain. "Yes, that is the end of my questions." He rose to his feet, and then hesitated. "I will hold this secret, Mr.…Potter, as long as you hold the information I gave you safe."

"Yes, of course," Harry said.

Snape stared at him a few moments longer. Harry looked determinedly at his nose. He wasn't going to be subject to Legilimency _now, _just when he had Snape believing a most magnificent lie.

Snape finally bowed his head, stiffly, and departed the building. Ron watched him go, then slumped back in his chair and turned intense, critical eyes on Harry.

"Why did you really come here?" he asked quietly.

"What do you mean?" Harry cocked his head. "I only chose to come here because the Ministry assigned me to stay here. I like you, Ron, but I didn't know about you before, and I must confess that you weren't one of the world's great attractions at first."

Ron's smile came and went. "No," he said. "I meant, if you were reared in secret far away from the normal wizarding world, why did you decide to come out _now_? There's no reason for you to do it. You could have stayed away from us all and had a happy life. Instead, you decided to defend the Malfoys. Why?"

Harry flexed his fingers behind his back and thought for a while before he responded. Luckily, he thought Ron would understand the hesitation. "Because I couldn't stand to see justice miscarried like that," he said. "It was so _blatant. _Here they were with no one to help them. And yeah, I know you have reason to hate Lucius," he added quickly when Ron opened his mouth. "But Draco…he's a kid. He could live for so many more years, do so much more. Instead, he's just being condemned."

Ron shook his head. "Where were you for all the earlier trials? Why didn't you interfere when other people, Muggleborn and pure-blood alike, were condemned to the Dementor's Kiss?"

Harry shrugged uncomfortably and looked away. He doubted Ron would accept, "I wasn't dreaming about you then," as an excuse. "I didn't have enough of a conscience then," he said quietly. "I should have done something, yeah. But I didn't."

There was a shuffle and rustle that sounded like Ron rising to his feet. Harry had thought he would go back into the kitchen or his own rooms, but he strode up to Harry instead. Harry started when he turned around and found him so close.

"That's shite," Ron said quietly, but hard enough to make Harry's hair puff out. "You _should _have done something. If our world could have been different if you'd lived, or your parents had lived, and you could have been here, then you should have been here earlier." He paused and gave Harry a steady look. "Maybe you could have prevented fucking Lucius Malfoy from killing my sister."

He headed away before Harry could say something stupid, like, "But I did, in another world." When he'd vanished, Harry sighed and sat down on the chair he'd been in when talking to Snape.

He shouldn't feel guilty. Malfoy would say that these people weren't real.

But if everything in the dreams was only a reflection of something in the real world, then Harry didn't see how that really excused him. Had he done as much as he could have, in the Death Eater trials immediately after the war? Should he have stayed an Auror? Would that have done more to benefit people?

But Malfoy would probably say something else, too.

_You don't have to worry about everyone else in the world._

Harry let his breath out slowly. Yes, Ron's accusation had hurt, especially because there was no way Harry _could _explain the full context of the situation to him. But would he change what he was doing because of it? No. He wouldn't even stop defending Lucius, although Harry thought it more than likely that Lucius would be condemned even if they released Narcissa and Draco.

He couldn't be responsible to Hermione for all his decisions. He didn't owe Malfoy perfect obedience to his ideal of what a perfect Harry Potter should look like. He owed it to them not to be rude or unreasonable if he could, but sometimes he had to do what he thought was best.

Finish the trial. And then get the fuck out of the dreams. This was a confusing world, and a depressing one, and one that Harry thought he didn't want to live in.

_Even if Draco is here. _

And how much of the attraction to Draco had been that simple draw to someone who needed him? Harry was concerned that he'd hurt Draco's feelings, but he wasn't going to be upset for the rest of his life if it turned out that he wouldn't get to date Draco. The fantasies of living here had faded like…like dreams.

Harry stood back up, shaking his head. He didn't know when the dream would fade, because he could never predict that unless someone actually woke him up, but he thought any time now would be a good one.

"Evans!"

Harry whipped around. Hermione was running towards him, in a kind of crouching jog that made it seem as if she wanted to avoid notice from just inside or just outside the building. Harry turned automatically to cover her, drawing his wand.

When he turned back, she was blinking at him. "What?" he asked.

"It's just that you looked as if you had battle experience," she said. "Unusual in a barrister."

_And no matter what the universe, Hermione sees things that you don't want her to. _Harry sucked in a tight breath and did his best to smile at her instead of grinding his teeth. "Do you have something for me?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "It took me a long time, but I tracked down some sources that I'm sure of." Her face changed abruptly, a snarl taking over her mouth as she flushed deeply. "That bitch. That bloody hypocritical _bitch._"

Harry stared.

Hermione pulled what looked like a folder from her pocket, and didn't seem to notice that Harry didn't reach for it immediately. "She's not a pure-blood. Her father was a Muggle."


	25. Mired in Secrets

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Five—Mired in Secrets_

Harry could only stare at Hermione for a long moment. He wasn't sure what she wanted him to say or do, though, and she seemed to take the stunned expression he knew he wore as tribute enough. She bobbed her head and worked open the bag that she was carrying. It had handles that looked as though they would clip closed like a crocodile's jaws, Harry noted with the part of his brain that wasn't consumed in surprise.

"What?" he managed at last, his voice so hoarse that he didn't know if Hermione could hear him. He cleared his throat. "That can't be true. Surely someone would have known. And then, how did you discover it?"

Hermione gave him a thin smile and held up a scroll twisted shut with a black ribbon. "There are always resources if you know how to look for them," she said softly. "If she didn't want anyone to know that she was a half-blood, then perhaps she should have made sure to destroy the official records the Ministry has of her birth. Of course," she added, visibly spiraling away on a tangent, "if she'd done that, then alarms would have flared and alerted the Archivist that someone had tampered with the records, and they take any kind of tampering so seriously that—"

"Didn't the alarms flare when you touched the records?" Harry demanded. "I can't imagine that she would leave a vulnerability like that unprotected."

"Oh, she didn't," Hermione said, and opened the scroll so that Harry could see the writing on it. "But I work for her, you see. It did take me a few days to access the records, though, and defeat the protection spells that she'd laid over them. She didn't dare tamper with them in a way that would be visible, but she _did _lay a glamour on them that rendered them hard to read."

Harry shook his head. "I just can't believe it," he muttered. "This has to be something that she's afraid of other people knowing."

Hermione paused, her head tilted to the side as she examined him. "I keep forgetting that you don't know her very well," she said, "and that you aren't acquainted with the direction that she's trying to lead the Ministry in."

"No," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Especially because I don't understand why she wouldn't _be _Minister if she wanted to lead the Ministry in any direction at all, as opposed to having some people listen to her."

"It's complicated," Hermione said, her fingers strumming the scroll as if she had forgotten how much she'd wanted to show it to Harry. "But I think I finally understand her after seeing this. She wants to change minds and influence them, but she doesn't feel as though she can stand up in front of them and demand that they do it her way. She doesn't have the popular support, for one thing. But I always felt that something else held her back, even in cases where most people would probably have agreed with the tack that she wanted to take, such as executing most Death Eaters without trials. She—respects codes of conduct outside herself. She _needs _a higher authority." Hermione stared at the scroll again. "She needs to believe she's doing the right thing," she whispered. "At first I thought she simply favored the pure-bloods because she's one of them, and promoting their interests promoted her own. But that can't be it, not when she has a Muggle father. Now I think she admires them instead. She aspires to be part of them, and she's ashamed that she's not. So she buries the knowledge deep, and attempts to act even more pure than they do."

"That would make sense," Harry said, Snape's words thrumming in her brain. "Longbottom is pure-blood, right?"

Hermione nodded. "His family is one of the few left that wasn't touched by the war in some way. Well," she hastily corrected herself, "obviously he lost his parents. But they gained rather than lost prestige, because they were on the right side of the war, and they've never been involved with Ministry corruption or even had enemies that I know of, in the last several generations."

"You've studied the enemy," Harry said.

"There's no _reason _for us to be the enemy," Hermione said, and flashed him a bitter smile. "But you could say that I understand Discipula because I've done some of the same things, though without ever being able to deny my heritage. I still work for people who despise me, because I want more power than I would be able to have otherwise."

Harry thought he could see it now, but he still bent down and read the scroll, because he wanted to take a few more minutes to let it all come clear in his head.

Yes, it still claimed that Discpula's mother had been a Mondragoran, or at least married to one, but her father was listed as _Of non-magical extraction. _Harry raised his eyebrows at Hermione. "It doesn't actually give a name. Are you sure that her father wasn't a Squib, and that she's not covering up her mother's adultery rather than the fact that she's a half-blood?"

Hermione nodded with a small, cruel smile. Harry reckoned that she might enjoy being in a position of power to threaten a woman who had been so patronizing to her for so many years. "Yes. Squibs would be listed that way, and so would someone who had lost their magic some time during their lifetimes, but the color of the ink is purple for Squibs and green for people who lose their magic. This is plain black."

Harry looked closely at the scroll and realized that, yes, Hermione was right. Not that he would ever have thought to look for the colors of the ink or known what they meant if he did. He shook his head. "You're a wonder," he told her, and to his surprise she blushed, bowing her head for a moment as though struggling to control her surprise and pleasure.

"Yes, well," she muttered, and cleared her throat. "Anyway, it's another reason that she would dare to keep the record. If anyone ever thought to look, then they might see that her mother had committed adultery, but all she had to do was cast an illusion on the ink, and they would believe that he was still a pure-blood."

"Squibs are considered pure-blood, then?" Harry asked, tapping the edge of the scroll. Ideas were colliding in his mind and birthing new ones. Yes, if he left them alone long enough, he thought the truth ought to emerge from them.

"If their parents that bore them were." Hermione clenched her teeth for a moment; Harry wondered if she was biting back a rant on how unfair it was that people without magic got to have that title as long as they had the right family, while someone who was Muggleborn got ignored. She jerked up the scroll a moment later and looked at him. "I hate her for hiding this," she said, softly but clearly. "If she had accepted it and decided that she would make her way in the world no matter what her parentage, then she could have helped those of us who were Muggleborn and half-blood a lot more than she did."

Harry wasn't as sure of that as Hermione was. "There's no way that she could have done that," he said. "She was probably fighting prejudice that was too much older than she was, too entrenched."

But it did explain some things, he thought. Why would Discipula not have claimed credit for the defeat of Voldemort and become a heroine herself? Because she wasn't pure-blood, and afraid to the death that someone else would find out. And probably ashamed of her blood at the bottom, if Hermione was right and she was always looking for someone to admire and imitate.

"She fucking well _could _have done something!"

Harry blinked and recalled himself from his thoughts. Hermione was leaning towards him, as close as Ron had come earlier, and with the same fire burning in the back of her eyes.

"Yes, she could have helped us," she said. "She was powerful, and if she had made herself someone whose opinions no one dared disagree with, then she would have smoothed the way. Once people get used to something, they accept it as though it's always been that way. One powerful half-blood means another powerful half-blood is possible."

Harry snorted. Hermione was smart, but he thought her idealistic tendencies were carrying her away. "No," he said. "People are more likely to accept the idea of _one _powerful half-blood. And if Discipula had admitted her heritage from the beginning, then do you think that she would ever have become what she is now? I don't know exactly how half-bloods qualify in the pure-blood and Muggleborn market. But she wouldn't have that power, and then you would probably despise her as just another victim, someone who should have battered further into the world and knocked down more walls."

Hermione froze, staring at him. "How did you know that?" she asked in a small voice.

"It seemed like the kind of thing she would do," Harry said cautiously. _He _was a bit surprised that Hermione hadn't demanded to know why he wasn't familiar with the status of half-bloods. "And—"

"No," Hermione said, lowering her eyes and toying with a bracelet that Harry hadn't noticed before, around her wrist. It looked Muggle-made, of bright plastic, and he couldn't sense any enchantments on it. "That's—the way I feel. That I should have got further by now, done more. How did you know that?"

Harry shook his head, in the uncomfortable position of having to pity someone he knew was smarter than he was. "You know it's prejudice you're battling," he murmured. "Not reality. And you couldn't have concealed your heritage the way she did." He paused, then added, when Hermione showed no sign of looking up, "I think you've come pretty far for someone who most of the world despises."

Hermione sniffed and wiped at her eyes. "I can't have everything I want," she whispered. "I wouldn't have as much as I do if Discipula hadn't hired me. I reckon that was her good-will gesture, her way of making up for some of what she'd done to the people whose blood she shares." She looked up suddenly. "But I want it to _change. _And she doesn't want it to."

"Maybe she did, at one point," Harry murmured. He kept trying to think of a time when Discipula would have betrayed her true feelings, but all he could see was the smooth, blank politician's mask, or the way she had reacted to Snape's taunts at the trial. But those had been about the potential revealing of her heroism, not because Snape knew she wasn't pure-blooded. "But she has too much invested in gaming the system now."

_She isn't as much of a villain as I thought she was. And Malfoy was right. She was using a mask of pride to hide something—only it was a blood poverty rather than money poverty, the way it was with Bulstrode._

"I can't let it influence me," Hermione said resolutely after a moment. "We still have to stop her."

Harry nodded. "I know what I plan to do with this information," he said. "What are you going to do?"

Hermione jerked her head up. "What do you mean, _do_? We have to let everyone know about this!"

"Really?" Harry raised his eyebrows. "What do you think it will change?"

"It will let everyone know that one of the smartest and most feared people in the Ministry has Muggle blood!" Hermione gestured wildly with one hand, her eyes shining. "That _has _to tell them that some of their prejudices were wrong!"

"One of the most feared," Harry echoed softly. "She might get away with lying to them if she was well-loved, but she's not. As it is, you'd be more likely to start a panic over what other Muggleborns might be hiding within the Ministry, and who else is lying about their blood heritage. And you'd confirm that prejudice about Muggleborns being people that you can't trust."

"That's not—_fair._"

Harry had to smile a little at the wounded tone in her voice. "Not very, no," he conceded. "But then, Discipula's spent most of her life making things a little less fair for everyone else, by running in fear from her own shadow. I think the best we can do is use the information to do a little good, to blackmail her into doing what we want."

Hermione blinked at him. "You talk so easily about blackmail, Evans," she said. "It makes me wonder who you were and what you did before you showed up here."

"I wasn't ordinary," Harry said, and left it at that. He didn't think Hermione was as interested in his background as she was in figuring out what to do about Discipula, and had that proven when she just glared at him and waited for him to continue. "Anyway, I'm going to use this to make sure that she at least lets Narcissa and Draco Malfoy go. I don't know if anything can save Lucius."

"How can you be sure that influencing her will do any good?" Hermione turned her head like an owl's. "The Wizengamot is ultimately the one who has to make that decision."

"The Wizengamot abided by her decision not to give any of the other Death Eaters trials," Harry said. "I think they'll _listen _to her, and that's the important thing. And if they don't, then I'll make her responsible for figuring out what to do."

He smiled. Hermione smiled back at him and looked again at the scroll that contained the information about Discipula's father as though it would give her the answers. "I don't know what the best thing to do is," she said.

Harry opened his mouth to give her a suggestion—

And paused.

Why did he care? Why did he _have _to care? He thought this world's struggles with blood prejudice were disgusting, and that Voldemort's death should have stopped all that. But was it his struggle to fight?

It could easily become so. He'd jumped into defending the Malfoys without thinking things through, and the same thing could happen with blood prejudice if he didn't hold back.

But in the end…

He had to stop sacrificing himself because someone needed him, or he felt someone did. He no longer wanted to stay in a world as fucked-up as this one, and the one goal he had set himself was freeing the Malfoys. If he couldn't free Lucius, well, at least he would try. Anything beyond that was extra.

Hermione had to fight her own battles. Ron would have to decide what to do about the knowledge that Discipula and not Longbottom had defeated Voldemort—and Harry thought he wouldn't let it rest for long. He had put weapons into the hands of the people who would have been his friends if he'd been born here, and he thought he could trust them to fight the good fight.

_He _wanted to go home.

Hermione didn't seem to notice that he hadn't spoken. She was running her fingers over the edge of the folder she'd held out earlier instead, which looked to contain more records, and at last she gave a faint, grim smile. "I could make her do what she always should have done," she said.

"What's that?" Harry jerked himself back to the conversation again. Usually, he never had this much trouble in staying interested in the events of the dreams. Did suspecting they weren't real make _that _much of a difference?

_No. I suspect not wanting to stay in them forever with Draco does._

"I could make her start working on better relations between Muggleborns and pure-bloods." Hermione's smile was positively unholy. "Set up a Department in the Ministry that would deal with it. I know there are a lot of discontented people around, and others who would do something if only they weren't so afraid of the consequences. Like me," she added bitterly. "But this way, she would have to do what she always should have done, and there would be worse consequences for not doing it than for doing it. You're right, they would never trust her again if she revealed her blood heritage now, so she can't be our hero. But she can be someone who fights for us."

Harry nodded. "And you're all right with blackmail?"

"For _this _purpose? Yes." Hermione struck the closed file with her hand and stood up straight. "Is there anything else you need from me, Evans? Only I should go back soon so that I'm not missed."

Her eyes had fire in them, Harry thought, instead of ashes, as they had the first time he'd seen her. _Count this as my good deed for Hermione, I reckon. I can hope that she doesn't get hurt, but I can't be here all the time to protect her. Any more than I protected the real one when she decided to become a barrister and I knew that she would face a lot of opposition and heartbreak and disappointment._

"No," Harry said. "Unless you want to give me a copy of the documents."

Hermione nodded, opened the folder again, and cast a complicated charm that Harry wasn't familiar with. Two ghostly images seemed to drift off the face of the paper and become copies, rather than the paper simply duplicating itself. "This way," Hermione told him, as she handed him one paper and took the other to tuck into her pocket, "we both have the evidence of the lie that she would die to defend, even after I return the file to the Ministry."

Harry nodded his admiration and watched her as she strode out of the Ministry lodgings, strides so rapid that Harry wondered for a moment if she would hurt herself.

_No, but she'll probably hurt someone else._

Harry shook his head and turned away. He could go up to his room and sleep, but he didn't want to. He could go after Discipula now and confront her, but he didn't want to. He wanted to leave the dream, to look at Hermione in his world, the way she should have been, and think about what the fuck he would do next.

And then the dream began to pull itself to clots and pieces around him, and Harry sighed in relief. Good; for once its ending matched his desires rather than coming too soon or late.

* * *

He woke, and he couldn't breathe.

Harry clawed at the air and then at his throat. He tried to cough, but no sound came out. For a moment he thought he was choking on a piece of food, but he couldn't remember what he would have been eating.

He lunged for his wand, lying beside the stack of books, and cast a spell that he thought would force air into his lungs. But either he was remembering the incantation wrong—he'd only studied it briefly as part of Auror training—or he wasn't strong enough to do it nonverbally. The wand fell from his hands again, and the choking went on.

Harry shook his head and staggered to his feet, trying to concentrate past the piercing pain and the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. If he couldn't do this one way, he would do it another. He turned and rammed his back as hard as he could into the wall of the office, not fighting to keep his head from bouncing.

The impact hurt, but it didn't hit hard enough. Harry bent down and struck one of the desks this time, driving the corner into the small of his back. His head swam, and he could see little flashes of color and threads of darkness, and not much else.

It seemed to work. Suddenly the choking hold on his throat eased and the air rushed back in. Harry collapsed and lay there, unable to care about the way his back and head ached. He could breathe again. Everything else melted into stupidity before that.

He didn't know how long he kept lying there, but suddenly there was a flash of silver in front of him and he saw Hermione's otter Patronus again. It placed its paws on either side of his head and said, "Harry, I'm worried about you. If you aren't home in ten minutes, then I'll come to the office, and I don't care whether you like me interfering or not."

Harry braced his palms flat against the floor and pushed himself up. He couldn't let Hermione come here and discover him wounded and breathless. That would make her think again that the dreams were dangerous, and then she would—

He paused, then.

_Why does it matter to me if she knows the dreams are dangerous? I thought that I wanted to stop them anyway, and she might know why I suddenly started choking now when it never happened before. Or she might have theories, at least._

Yeah, he thought as he stood up, retrieved his wand, and went down the stairs to follow the retreating Patronus. It felt better when he didn't have to lie to his friends.

And it would feel better if he didn't die of this choking sensation, either.


	26. Over the Fence

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Six—Over the Fence_

"I was right to be worried."

It irritated Harry a moment that Hermione spoke the words right when he walked through the door, without giving him a chance to greet her or explain, but on the other hand, she was probably right. He just nodded and shut the door behind him with a hard twist, then cast a spell that would tell him if there was anyone lurking around the house, including people Transfigured into beetles.

"I haven't seen you use that spell in years," Hermione said, but the tone of her voice had shifted, quickening towards the interest that Harry had wanted to hear, rather than the worry that would just get in the way and mess things up. "Did someone come up to you at the office and beg for an interview?"

Harry shook his head and turned around; the spell had told him no one was nearby. "It's not that," he said. "But the dreams have taken a strange turn, and I want to make sure that no one hears about them so that they end up as front-page news in the _Daily Prophet _tomorrow."

"If they haven't by now, they probably aren't going to," Hermione said, but her face had gone pale. "What happened?"

Harry gestured towards the drawing room. After a moment, Hermione nodded and let him herd her into the room. She sat down on the chair nearest the fireplace, watching him narrowly. Ron was already there, listening to the wireless; he turned it down when he saw Harry's expression, or perhaps Hermione's.

Harry felt a burst of affection that made him silent for long seconds. He didn't think he'd appreciated lately just how wonderful his friends were. Seeing their different versions in the dream world brought it home most sharply, but just seeing their eyes on him, the concern they felt for him that was miles away from everything he'd experienced with the Dursleys, was even stronger right now.

"First, I owe you an apology for snapping at you," he told Hermione. "I'm still not happy that you didn't tell me what the potion did, but I could have phrased it better. I don't blame you for thinking the dreams were bad news, either."

Hermione smiled at him. "I could have told you about the potion, too," she murmured. "It was an old, bad habit that made me avoid it."

"Of _course _the dreams are bad news," Ron intervened, probably to prevent them from talking over his head for too long. "You're moaning Malfoy's name. What's the good side to that, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "Yeah, but I don't know why I should have been doing that, when the dreams never contained anything sexual between me and Draco." Ron clapped his hands over his ears, and Harry waited patiently until he lowered them. "The same way that I don't know why I woke up choking tonight."

"_Choking_?" Hermione sat up straighter. "Did it feel as though someone was strangling you?"

"A mixture of that and just not being able to breathe," Harry said. "I finally managed to save myself because I hit the desk with my back, and that made the air go into my lungs again the way that you can knock a piece of food out of someone's throat sometimes with an arm across their midsection." He paused and reached back, wincing. "I bet I'm going to have a hell of a bruise tomorrow."

"This is serious," Hermione whispered. "We need someone who can help us go through the records on dream magic and tell us what's normal in a situation like this."

Harry nodded. "I know. I was thinking that one of the experts—"

"We need Malfoy."

Harry ground his teeth down so that he wouldn't scream at her. They'd just reconciled, and he really would hate to spoil it the moment they started trusting each other again. "Why?" he asked at last. "Sure, he has the names of dream magic experts, but he's sent them to me. That means that we _don't _need him. We can contact anyone who sounds trustworthy on our own, instead of approaching him again."

"I've been thinking more about this since you stormed out earlier today," Hermione said.

"Of course you have," Ron said. "You think about _everything._"

Hermione looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "And aren't you glad I do?" she murmured. For some reason, Ron flushed. Hermione turned around and smiled at Harry, continuing with a flourish. "I don't think the dreams can be accounted for by Malfoy's original spell and the way your mind reacted to them. Yes, that might account for the peculiar idea that the Malfoys still need you to save them, because it gave you a place to belong and someone to help. But the way you moan Malfoy's name in your sleep? The twitching hands, as if you were being stimulated?" She shook her head. "And then this. I think that Malfoy's desire for you has a part to play in it."

"The moaning, fine," Harry said, when he could speak past the choking block of his sheer astonishment. "But the twitching? The _choking? _If Malfoy wants to fuck me—"

"Not listening!" Ron told the ceiling.

"Then he doesn't want me dead," Harry finished. "And I really think I would have died if I hadn't managed to get the air flowing again. What in the world can he have to do with that?"

"His emotions are part of this," Hermione said softly. "I've studied the spell he cast. He didn't use it in a traditional way, either. While it compels the victim's attention, most of the time it's used by people who are expecting to persuade someone else, or trick them. It's not used with desire foremost in the person's mind."

"Desire doesn't influence spells," Ron said. "It's been studied. You told me that a year ago, Hermione, when I told you that I wanted to use that Feather-Tickling Charm without modifications because—"

"It wouldn't have worked for what you wanted to use it for," Hermione said, so repressively that Harry wondered if he would ever find out what Ron had wanted to use it for. "But when someone feels a strong enough desire, a _desperate _desire, it can have." She turned to look at Harry again. "Or when someone is using a wand that someone else has earned the allegiance of at some time."

Harry sighed and buried his head in his hands. "I should have known that stupid thing would come back to haunt us sometime," he muttered.

"Yes, you should have." Hermione wasn't letting him out of this, Harry thought, half-annoyed and half-amused that she was doing it so soon after their row over whether she should have told him about the potion and whether Malfoy should be involved at all. "But I think that must be it. There's nothing else you've shared that makes sense. I did research life-debts, but there's no record that they influence spells that way. They might make them a bit more powerful if someone casts a defensive spell intended to preserve the life of someone they owe a debt too, but that's it."

Harry nodded, almost resigned by now. "So you're going to ask Malfoy to join us again?"

"You're going to."

Harry surged to his feet. "I don't think I should have to," he snapped. "I just told him that I wanted him out of my life never to be heard from again, don't you remember? He'll take it better coming from you, and there's no reason to force _me _to do it. It's like the potion all over again, Hermione, and not telling me about it. Are you _sure _that your motives are pure when it comes to this?"

Hermione flushed a bright, vivid pink. "Sorry, Harry," she murmured. "I sounded like—sorry." Harry nodded, as mollified as he could be when their fight was still so recent. "But the truth is, I don't think he'll listen to me. He _will _listen to you."

"Fine," Harry muttered. "And in the meantime, I ought to take Dreamless Sleep for the next few nights, or however long it takes to persuade him. I can't risk waking up choking like that again."

Hermione looked at him with what seemed to be a mixture of surprise and respect. "That's a good idea, Harry."

"I _do _have them, on occasion," Harry said in a superior tone. Hermione pursed her lips, and he could practically hear the thought that shouted across her mind: _Not very often. _Harry controlled his own impulse to snap back to that, and added, "Should I wait for the morning? I'd go now, but I don't think Malfoy would take it very well if I woke him up."

"Yes, that's a good idea, too," Hermione said. "I'm a bit tired myself."

"And so am I," Ron said. He reached out suddenly and grasped Harry's hand, hard enough that Harry blinked at him. His friend's eyes were suspiciously bright. "I've missed you, mate," Ron whispered. "I don't want to lose you to these bloody dreams."

Harry touched him briefly on the shoulder, and then, because that evidently wasn't enough, hugged him. "I don't want to be lost," he mouthed back, against Ron's hair. "I'm only now realizing how much I don't want to be."

"Then do the smart thing and call Malfoy to help you," Ron said. "You know. Tomorrow morning. Swallow your pride if you have to." He shuddered a bit. "I'm going to have to do that, to actually have him here."

Harry smiled. "I know. And I appreciate it more than I can say."

"To bed, now," Hermione interposed. She'd gone to the cabinet in her study that held the potions they sometimes needed and held out the vial of Dreamless Sleep to him. "You'll probably need all your wits to face Malfoy."

Harry accepted the vial and gulped down the potion, starting towards his room so that he would at least have the dignity of falling over on his own bed. "If he'll even see me," he muttered. It wouldn't surprise him if Malfoy refused.

* * *

"Give me one good reason why I should come, Potter."

Harry sighed and scratched the back of his neck. He couldn't get angry, he reminded himself. No matter what. If Malfoy wouldn't help, then that was one thing. He and Hermione would have to consult the dream magic experts themselves, in that case, and work from a distance on Malfoy's stated emotions for Harry, probably with Harry's memories of his conversations with the git in Pensieves.

But if they could get Malfoy to listen, then it was important they do so. Hermione had emphasized that with a stern stare that left Harry in no doubt about _how _much importance she placed on it.

_Fine._

"I don't know," he told Malfoy's reflected image, floating in the flames. "Except that I'm sorry for what I said to you. It's still true that I don't want you interfering in my life and I think you were stupid for lying to me, but I discovered—well, Hermione discovered, with facts I gave her—something about your role in the dreams and the original spell that makes it imperative we contact you."

"How could anyone refuse an invitation like that?"

Harry sighed again and sat back. "I almost choked to death last night," he said, playing the card he hadn't wanted to play, although he thought Hermione had expected him to mention it first thing. It felt like confirming all Malfoy's fears about the dreams, and—well, it felt like manipulating the prick by his concern for Harry. "Coming out of the dream. Hermione takes that more seriously than anything else that's happened so far."

Malfoy went still, staring at him. Then he shook his head and laughed. The sound was hollow and bitter, as though it had to travel through a long tunnel before it got to Ron and Hermione's house via the Floo connection. "I reckon you're going to blame me for that, too, and call me a murderer."

"Don't be stupid," Harry said. "I know you're not a killer."

Malfoy's nostrils flared. "So that's the reason that you aren't going to blame me," he said. "Not because you trust me not to have done something like this to you."

"You would have mocked me if that was my reason, and asked how I _could _trust you," Harry said. "Anyway, we need your help. Will you come over? I can pay you for your time if you like, or compensate you in some other way."

Malfoy's teeth shone for a moment. He looked as though he was battling between conflicting desires. Harry sat quiet, wondering which outcome he most wanted. On the one hand, if Malfoy refused, that meant Harry wouldn't have to deal with him and his confusing way of showing his affection again.

On the other, Harry did feel that he could have handled the situation better. So this would take away a chance to apologize.

_Not necessarily, _he thought then. _I could still apologize to him before I shut down the Floo connection._

"Asking if I want to be paid is insulting," Malfoy said at last in a strangled voice. "As insulting as assuming that only my lack of desire to be a killer would keep me from harming you. I want something else."

"Yes?" Harry waited expectantly. He assumed it would be an apology, maybe a kiss, combined with some other kind of nonverbal payment.

"I want you to act differently towards me," Malfoy said. "To give me a chance in ways that you haven't so far. To _listen _when I say something, instead of hearing the words of the boy I once was, the boy who _would _have done something like this to you for a prank, or because you hurt his father. I've changed, and you only look at a mask and refuse to recognize that. These past few weeks have taught me more about what I want and what I don't want, and I insist that you respect that."

Harry blinked. "All right," he said slowly. "That doesn't mean that I can promise to date you, or find you attractive."

"Don't you think I _know _that?" Malfoy's voice cracked. He took a deep breath and shook his head. "I know that," he said more calmly. "But some of what you said to me came out of disgust that the old Draco Malfoy, the one you knew or thought you knew at Hogwarts, would want to date you. _I'm not that person. _I want you to acknowledge that no matter what you ultimately end up deciding."

"Fine," Harry said, deciding that he would make some statements of his own as long as they were here. "I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, and not all of it was accurate."

Malfoy stared at him. "Not all of it?" he asked at last, in a faint voice.

"Right," Harry said. "Some of it was. That means that, if you ever lie to me again about something you did and knew I wouldn't like because you think it's for my own good, our bargain ends right then and there. That was the most insulting thing, and I'm _not _going to put up with it again."

"I thought I couldn't trust you to do anything but keep on going into the dreams," Malfoy began.

"Then why should I trust you when you couldn't trust me enough to explain the situation and see how I responded to it?" Harry snapped. He got his breath and words back under control with an effort. "I'd appreciate apologies from you, too, but I don't think they're forthcoming. Fine. All right. I can deal with this. The one thing I really _can't _deal with is more lying. I was serious about wanting someone who doesn't treat me like a child."

"What about not understanding why I'd want someone who continually rejected me?" Malfoy's eyes glittered.

"I still don't understand that," Harry said. "But that's because I'm not a person who would keep on going to someone after he did that. If you _want _to, if you can stand to work with me, and if you don't change your mind after being in close contact with me, then we'll see."

"No promises," Malfoy said.

"Other than the ones I've already made you, no," Harry said. "But the dreams are coming to an end, or at least the plot that concerns the people I want to help is. I've found out information about Discipula that will make it possible to blackmail her and end the Malfoys' trial that way. After that—well, I had fantasies of staying with Draco once, of building a family and a home. I know that's not going to happen."

Malfoy stared at him, a steady stare like the pressure of a diamond. "And you're content to simply let the dreams lapse?"

"Nearly dying last night scared me," Harry said, which was no more than the truth. "I was alone in the office, and I could have fainted from the lack of air, even though there was no physical cause of the choking. One of my friends having to find me like that—" He closed his eyes. He'd lain awake a long time last night after he took the Dreamless Sleep thinking about that, and he was certain he would have had nightmares had the potion permitted them. "I don't want that to happen," he finished in a whisper.

"I can deal with this," Malfoy said, as if answering a question from someone else. "Bring me through." He reached a hand towards the flames.

Harry blinked, startled, but he dropped another handful of Floo powder into the fire and made sure that the fireplace was open to visits from strangers. Malfoy continued to reach, and when Harry reached back towards him, his fingers were there, warm and solid and real, curled around Harry's wrist, his palm resting against Harry's.

Harry yanked, and Malfoy stepped out of the fireplace, looked about for a moment as though expecting lines of cheering spectators, and then nodded and fussed with his robe, settling it around him. Harry cleared his throat expectantly. Malfoy turned towards him and stared.

Harry winced. He had thought that he'd got pretty expert at enduring stares from Malfoy through the fire a few minutes ago, but now they were in the same room with no barrier separating them, and it was more overwhelming than he had expected.

"I would hate to find you like that, too," Malfoy said, every word carefully delivered, low and precise and controlled.

Harry shook his head. "What?" Malfoy's presence so close to him was making it hard for him to concentrate, which was _stupid _and shouldn't be happening, but there you were, it was.

"I would hate to find your body in your office because you had died from the dreams. Or any other cause." Malfoy reached out and cupped his cheek. Harry hesitated and then leaned into the touch, mostly to see what would happen. Other than feeling warm skin against his, not much, it turned out. "Don't—don't do that to me. I'm glad that you've finally seen sense and you're going to turn to me for help. But if you throw me out again because I lied to you, promise me that you won't give up on conquering the dreams."

"I promise," Harry said softly, his breath traveling in gentle puffs over Malfoy's palm. It was strange. Being so close in company with Malfoy like this was affecting him in ways that he wouldn't have said anyone but Draco could affect him. Malfoy knew it, if the sudden, lazy smile that grew in his eyes was any indication. He flickered his gaze down to take in the sight of Harry's tensed muscles as if he liked them, then stepped away suddenly enough that Harry staggered.

"Believe me," he said, "I've lain awake many nights wondering why I wanted you. Quite apart from your persistent rejection and the bad history we have between us that would seem to make any effort at reconciliation impossible, there was the fact that it felt like betraying my family. To associate with someone who had a Muggleborn mother, who didn't care for the ideals that my family had always lived for, who ignored the concepts I considered most important and lived in deadly ignorance of his own heritage? I ought to have been able to find a suitable partner among those who believed in the same things I did."

"Ought to," Harry echoed, a little blankly. He _really _shouldn't be having this reaction to Malfoy, he thought. Yes, he'd decided that his fancying of Draco was a stupid thing mixed up with other emotions, and Malfoy had kissed him once, but that wasn't a reason to feel his heart going faster than normal and his breath catching when he saw Malfoy looking at him this way. He shook his head and said in a stronger voice, "But you've decided that your emotions aren't going away."

"No," Malfoy said. "Which is the reason that I want you to listen to me. One last chance." He smiled without humor. "For the both of us. Because, if you can't respect me, then I _do _need to break myself loose. I can't live with someone who won't ever see anything but an illusion of the boy I was."

"What a remarkable coincidence," Harry said evenly. "Because I feel the same way."

Malfoy frowned for a moment, tugging at his earlobe as if that might mean he'd have an answer to Harry's statement. Then he nodded. "I did promise that I would change things."

"If you can," Harry said. "Once you have a habit that deeply ingrained, it can take a lifetime to change. I should know," he added, because he felt that he owed Malfoy a concession for taking control of the conversation.

Malfoy never let Harry's eyes go as he inclined his head. "We'll both try," he said. "The only thing we _can _do. And in the meantime, we'll spare you from these dreams." His hold on Harry's wrist, which Harry had forgotten he still had, tightened crushingly. "No one will do anything stupid."

"Except as a mistake," Harry said. If Malfoy expected him to be perfect, then it was best that they just not work together.

And then Malfoy relaxed, and smiled, and his inhuman-looking face became just as much a human one as Draco's was. "I always expect that, around you," he said. "The same way that I expect dangerous good luck and equally dangerous miracles."

"You've done one yourself, figuring out as much as you did about the dreams," Harry said. "But you didn't figure out that Discipula was a half-blood and hiding it, so there's that."

Malfoy stared at him. "What?"

Harry took some delight in explaining the events of the last dream, especially because after that he would have to go on to explain the choking, and he wasn't looking forward to it. Malfoy listened with his eyes varying between wide and narrow, particularly when Harry explained how he had used silence to get the better of Snape. He snorted when Harry's rendition of the interrogation was done and asked, "But you didn't get as much out of him as you thought you had at first?"

"Not as much," Harry agreed. "But only because he didn't know the information about Discipula that Hermione managed to provide me."

He described that conversation then, and Malfoy leaned back in his chair as he listened. Harry faltered in the middle of a few sentences, looking over at his closed eyelashes and the lines of weariness on his face. He didn't look so different from Draco, now, and that meant Harry had to wonder whether he felt some of the same things Draco did, the feelings Harry had automatically assumed Malfoy was immune to.

_He is Draco, in a way. And I need to find a way to understand both the real world and the dreams._


	27. All the Madness of Desire

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Seven—All the Madness of Desire_

"I've told you already, Granger." Malfoy's voice was low and tense, and made Harry clench his teeth just listening to the words. "I can't remember the _exact _moment that I cast the spell. I know I cast it in frustration, because I'd already tried several tactics to get Potter to pay attention to me, none of which worked. That's all I can tell you."

"There must be more than that," Hermione said. Her voice was so calm and studious that Harry could almost have believed she didn't resent the harsh words Malfoy had flung at her. On the other hand, it was _too _calm. "Mere frustration wouldn't cause the things Harry experienced in these dreams. Unless you were thinking of choking him because he frustrated you so?" Her voice ran with an undercurrent of amusement that Harry thought was entirely inappropriate. "I can understand that desire."

_I'm right here, _Harry wanted to say, but he thought that would hurt more than help. He scrubbed the back of his neck with one hand instead and tried to think of more memories he could pluck out of his dreams and put in the Pensieve, ones that would let Hermione and Malfoy understand what had happened.

He already had the conversation with dream-Hermione in there, since it was the last experience he'd had before he woke up. After some thought, he had added the part where dream-Ron told him all the world would have been different if he'd been there, as well, though he couldn't imagine what good it would do. But that was the point. They didn't have enough answers about the dreams, and they might stumble on an answer without knowing they had clues that pointed to one.

_But what else?_

His awareness of Hermione and Malfoy's voices had retreated again; it returned with some force when Hermione's voice abruptly rose. "If you imagine for one second that Harry wants you—"

"You must admit, Granger, that the moaning of my name is suggestive."

Harry turned to see Malfoy leaning back on the couch in Ron and Hermione's living room that sat closest to the fireplace, his arms folded across his stomach and a faint smile on his face. It didn't take a genius to read the hard glitter in his eyes, though, and know the smile wasn't a friendly one.

"He was moaning your _first _name," Hermione said. "The one he thinks of the Malfoy in his dreams by. I don't think you can assume that he wants you, either." She turned to Harry, red blotches of anger standing out on her face. _Well, at least she isn't getting along perfectly with him this time and leaving me out like the child they both think I am, _Harry thought, knowing all the while it probably wasn't the most mature thing in the world, to be this amused by his friend's predicament. "Tell him, Harry. You call him Malfoy, and the one you knew in the dreams Draco. Why?"

"It was a way to distinguish them, since I started having the dreams right after Malfoy approached me to practice Quidditch with him," Harry said. "And because the one in the dreams was younger than me, in every sense of the word. It seemed appropriate to call him by his first name while he was still referring to me by my last."

Malfoy snorted, a sound so deep that it could respectably have come from a horse. "You can _imagine _that I won't stand for that," he snapped. "I'm not younger than you in any sense of the word—I am, in fact, two months older—"

"How do you know that?" Harry interrupted. He could see Hermione rolling her eyes, but she didn't attempt to interrupt yet, which meant she didn't consider the argument serious, which meant he and Malfoy could say what they liked to each other.

"Everyone knows when your birthday is, prat," Malfoy said, with a look of slow-burning contempt that made it seem as if having a birthday that was public knowledge ranked a person one step lower than a Muggle in his estimation. "And I should emphasize that I know the hour and minute when I was born, not simply the day, which I know is more than you do."

"Fine," Harry said, through clenched teeth. "But this has nothing to do with thinking that _you're _younger than I am. It was the dream-Draco."

"Who wasn't entirely separate from me," Malfoy reminded him. "Granger seems to think that you desire to save someone and _my_ desire to be closer to you collided, and created a situation where you would be rescuing the Malfoys."

Harry nodded tightly. "Separate entities from you, if I'm remembering what you told me about the dream correctly. _Fictional _entities. I don't know why you reacted to me talking about Draco that way."

"He's the only version of me that you've wanted so far." Malfoy shrugged his shoulders with a single intense rippling movement, his eyes never turning from Harry's face. "I thought that I could guess your taste from that. You want someone innocent, someone dependent on you."

Harry shook his head fiercely. "Once again, you assume things without giving me a chance to explain them," he said. "That's exactly what I don't want, now—what I thought was attractive about Draco, and then the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it wasn't. Draco can't give me a challenge. He was someone I didn't know or understand, because I didn't know his history or all the ways that the dreams differ from my history. But I built up a fantasy image of him, and that's what I was admiring and worshipping. Plus his admiration of me," he added. "I don't really know why I got so caught up in it. You'd think I would hate that kind of thing, since it's all my fans can offer me."

"I can promise you that I will never admire or worship you unconditionally," Malfoy said with a solemn air. "As long as you don't think I _should, _then we should be fine."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Seven years of hatred, put behind us like that?"

"I hardly think so," Malfoy said, and smiled at him, "given the way we're arguing now."

Harry snorted and started to respond, but Hermione interrupted them with a growl that made it sound as if she'd been wanting to leap in for years. "Are we going to examine these memories, or not?"

Harry pushed the Pensieve towards her and then glanced at Malfoy. "Why don't you just put the memory of the moment when you cast the spell into the Pensieve, too? That ought to answer Hermione's questions about what you were feeling when you cast it."

Malfoy looked at him as though he was the biggest idiot in the universe. "Because the Pensieve only shows you the memory from the outside," he said patiently. "It would show me waving the wand and mouthing the incantation, yes. It wouldn't say anything about whether I felt frustration, resentment, or something else most strongly at that moment."

Harry ducked his head down and shrugged. He'd known that. "I knew that," he muttered, because Malfoy was still staring at him.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and started to say something else, but Hermione intervened with another growl and dragged the Pensieve closer, plunging her head into it. Harry didn't try to follow, although Malfoy did. He had no interest in Malfoy's reaction to the memories—he would hear all about it later—and already knew what his dreams looked like all too well.

He watched Malfoy's bowed head instead and sighed. He didn't _like _the git, but the possibility of attraction wasn't as foreign as it had seemed at first, not if he had been infatuated with Draco and felt the first stirrings of excitement when he watched Malfoy turn his head or clench his jaw or swallow.

He still didn't know what to do about them.

_Wait. See what happens. _In the end, that was all he _could _do, and Harry closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair with his feet splayed out in front of him, waiting for the moment when Hermione and Malfoy returned to the world.

* * *

"They were wrong."

Harry must have succumbed to a light doze, because when he opened his eyes, the angle of the light on the ground had changed and Hermione and Malfoy both had their heads out of the Pensieve and were staring at him. Hermione looked serious and earnest, and Malfoy's eyes were utterly flat. He was the one who'd spoken.

"Who was wrong?" Harry knuckled sleep out of his eyes and yawned. He felt as if he were the one who had plunged his head into the Pensieve, and drops of dreams and memory clung to the corners of his brain.

"The Weasel and Granger in the dreams, who wanted you to stay and fight for them," Malfoy said bluntly. "Tell me that you didn't _consider _believing them."

"For a little while," Harry said. "But then I realized that there are some fights that they'll have to handle themselves. Hermione will be all right. She can force Discipula to do what she should have done long ago—at least according to Hermione—and earn more rights for Muggleborns while she's at it. Ron has information, too, and he can use it to earn some distinction for himself. I don't know if he will," he added wryly, thinking of the way that Ron had leaned over him and practically yelled into his face. Harry had had more time to consider that reaction later, and he was ninety percent certain that behind Ron's anger had been fear. He had been handed a tool that would change the future, and he had no idea what to do with it. "But I've given him the choice."

Malfoy went on staring for a few seconds, as if it was a matter of personal importance to him whether Harry believed that or not, and finally grunted and leaned back in the chair himself. Harry turned to Hermione.

"Did you find out anything about why I might have woken choking?" he asked.

"I saw a very disturbing vision of myself, and I'm afraid that distracted me at first," Hermione said wryly, touching her hair as if she was thinking about the other Hermione's hairstyle and glad that she didn't wear it that way. Then she shook herself and came sharply back to business. "I think the explanation for your reactions is simpler than what I thought at first."

Harry nodded. "What, then?"

Inexplicably, Hermione blushed. Then she said, "I think you woke moaning Malfoy's first name in your dreams because that was the way he dreamed of you addressing him. As you pointed out, you would have no other reason to do that, since you weren't interacting sexually with the 'Draco' in your dreams. Malfoy didn't manage to influence the content of this other world, except maybe that the spell chose who you would help, but he _did _manage to influence your body and your voice. Classically, the brain isn't in full control of the body during sleep, or at least the conscious brain isn't. And it would be much easier for someone's desire to influence a part of the mind beneath the surface."

"I don't desire to kill Harry." If Harry had thought Malfoy was sometimes short with him, it didn't compare to the freezing stare that he now cast Hermione. "If you think I do, then I should—"

"No," Hermione said, shaking her head as she turned to face him. "But Harry managed to cast off the choking feeling fairly easy for a murder attempt. I think the problem with _you_, Malfoy, is that you couldn't imagine your desire for Harry might be fulfilled, but you still continue to feel it, helplessly, against your will. Is that so?"

"Fucking right it is," Malfoy muttered, lashing out with one foot so that he hit the bottom of the table and it wobbled. "I wouldn't be feeling this if I had any say in the matter."

"Have you tried a Freezing Charm on your balls?" Harry inquired politely. "Because I understand that works sometimes."

Malfoy let go with a bark of a laugh. "Exactly _why _would you be angry that I don't want to want you when you spent so long trying to convince me that I shouldn't want you anyway?"

Harry shook his head. Malfoy was right; it made no sense to be angry _now. _But something about Malfoy's arrogant, prickish, pushy manner still spurred him to respond. He clenched his teeth and looked away.

"_As I was saying before I was interrupted,_" Hermione said, spacing her words a decent interval apart and looking back and forth between both of them as though she expected another interruption, "I think that the choking feeling is an expression of Malfoy's own frustrated desires. You felt it, Harry, because that's the way he feels when he stares at you, or at least felt when he cast the spell. If you had given in to him, then you might be experiencing pleasure right now, or at least the pleasure that seems to make you moan his name."

"Yes," Malfoy said then, his voice soft, all traces of anger gone. "It's like choking. Why didn't I think of that myself? Strangled between my own unwillingness to feel what I'm feeling and the fact that I've tried, and failed, to get rid of it."

Harry cast him a caustic glance. Malfoy was staring into the distance with a look of enlightenment on his face. "Meanwhile," he said, "you're so enchanted with this revelation that you don't care if I die because of your feelings."

Malfoy snapped back to life. "I never said that," he murmured, leaning forwards far enough that Harry thought the bastard would try to touch him. "But it lets me understand a lot that I didn't about the dreams. Notice that it's only when you woke up that you started to choke."

"That doesn't make sense, to my eyes," Harry said stubbornly. He ignored the disapproving look Hermione cast at him. If he wanted to disagree with Malfoy in her house, then he still would. "Why wouldn't I choke _inside _the dreams, instead? Coming back to the real world is what you wanted me to do."

"In the dreams, I can't affect you, except when the potion let me whisper information to you," Malfoy said. "I tried to touch you more strongly, and couldn't. So it was only when you returned to your body—into the world where I want you, instead of the fantasies that your mind created in response to my spell—that what I desire starts to matter again."

"Exactly!" Hermione clapped her hands and beamed at both of them. "You're a fairly good explainer of things like this, Draco. I was thinking so hard about how to dress it up in theoretical language that I didn't see the simple way forwards."

Malfoy's face changed a few times. Harry wondered if it was because Hermione had called him by his first name or because he didn't like being called simple, but in the end he only inclined his head to accept the compliment.

"All right," Harry said. "So how do we stop it from happening? I think I'm close to the end of the dreams now. Does that mean the choking feeling will stop when _they _stop, and we don't have to worry about it after that?" He felt more than a little stupid now, a little sheepish that they'd involved Malfoy at all. They could have asked him, or told him, or whatever it was they needed to do, and he could have stayed away.

Malfoy gave him an assessing glance, and Harry squirmed in his seat, flushing up to his cheekbones. Unbidden, a thought came to him. _No, he couldn't have, and he knows that even better than I do._

"I'm afraid that a new round of dreams would start after that." Hermione shook her head, lip stuck out as though she thought this was a tragedy. Well, it would be, if more dreams started, Harry had to concede. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life hovering between the real world and what felt like fully-realized alternate universes, any more than he wanted to spend it choking when he woke up. "The impulse from Draco that made him cast the curse in the first place, the impulse that makes you choke, has to be resolved. One way or another, he has to come to terms with his feelings for you."

Malfoy shifted and looked away. Harry blinked at her, then at him. "I'm willing," he said. "But he's told me that he already tried and nothing came of it. What makes you think that he can resolve them this time?"

"Because if he doesn't," Hermione said simply, "you probably die."

Harry winced. "Well," he said. "Right. There's that."

Malfoy spoke, low and vicious. "I want to be rid of these desires. I can't be. I can think I'm fine, and then I see your bloody picture in the _Prophet _and it makes me catch my breath, and the smile or wink or whatever it is that they've captured seems directed straight at me. I can have sex with someone else and think I'm over you, and then I imagine you touching me and it's better than the sex I just had."

"Have you been with other people and pretended they were me?" Harry asked, not sure whether curiosity or pity drove him to ask the question.

Malfoy simply peered at him, eyes flickering up under the lashes and then down again. "More than once," he said shortly.

"Oh." Harry licked his lips. He couldn't believe he was going to suggest this, but he wanted the dreams to end and his life to continue, and if nothing else had worked… "Do you think the dreams would go away if you kissed me and realized that it was really no big deal after all?"

Malfoy sat upright, quivering. Hermione stirred as if she would try to get between them, and then leaned back against her chair and shook her head. Harry found himself profoundly grateful for that.

"How dare you," Malfoy said, and it didn't have the fake-outraged sound that Harry had always thought it did in school. It sounded as though he was speaking from the depths of real shock. "How _dare _you suggest that it wouldn't be a big deal, when you know what I've felt and how hard I've tried to get rid of those feelings?"

Harry shook his head helplessly. It sometimes seemed that every attempt he made to make things better only made them worse. But on the other hand, he couldn't just sit there and let things go to hell, either.

"I didn't mean it that way," he said. "I didn't—I'm _not _a good kisser, Malfoy. What you've done is build up fantasies that have to do with what you feel and want and value, more than what I _am_. I can't possibly live up to those fantasies, the way that the other people you were with couldn't, either." Malfoy's face flushed an ugly pink, but Harry kept charging ahead, to the end, because he needed to get there and say his piece before he lost his nerve. "If you kiss me, you'll be kissing a real person. I think—I think that would help you. You'll be able to see that the fantasies _aren't real_, and that could help you to clear me out of your system completely."

Malfoy's eyelids drooped over his eyes, so that Harry couldn't see what he was feeling. Harry shifted uneasily. He hated that look, but on the other hand, he thought he had spoken more than enough, and so had Malfoy. He shut up and waited for the prat's decision.

"What you say makes a kind of sense," Malfoy said. "But only a kind. I have kissed you once before, and it destroyed none of my desires."

Harry snorted. "You took me by surprise then. This time, I'll participate. Ginny said that I wasn't a natural snogger, that someone had to teach me. I won't live up to your sophisticated standards."

He expected Malfoy to laugh, or at least smirk, but instead, Malfoy went on studying him attentively. Then he shook his head. "You intend to use me against myself, even now," he said. "You want me to be able to joke about something important to me."

Harry flung up one hand and started to speak, then shut his mouth and breathed deeply a few times. If he left now and did nothing, he reminded himself forcefully, nothing would change for the better. It would just sit there between them, stinking, and Harry wanted Malfoy's mind clear when they focused on the dreams.

He tried to speak as simply and honestly as he knew how.

"I've only recently realized that I take care of people too much. I'm not trying to do that now. I think that part of it is also that I ignore people. I give them what I think they need and want, instead of what they actually _do. _Sometimes to ridiculous extents," he added gloomily, remembering some of his sillier arguments with Ginny. "I want you to have what you need—to break this infatuation I seem to have cast over you, if nothing else. I think that kissing me will tell you the truth. What else would do it? Tell me, and I'll do my best to get you what you need."

Malfoy stared at him with those droopy eyes again and said nothing. Harry forced himself to be patient. He wanted to turn to Hermione; he wanted to roll his eyes; he wanted to walk away, because he'd already told the truth and what _else _was there? But he waited instead, attention fixed on Malfoy, who never moved from the chair.

"Kiss me," Malfoy said hoarsely.

Harry blinked, then nodded. He rose and walked across the room to Malfoy's chair. Halfway there, he realized that Malfoy didn't intend to stand up and so Harry would need to bend down to him.

_Well, needs must._

Awkwardly, he bent and brushed his lips against Malfoy's. Malfoy's mouth opened, and Harry answered the invitation he thought was hesitant, whatever the bold face that Malfoy put on it. He swept his tongue out and into Malfoy's mouth, wondering whether he would taste of anything besides heat.

No. There was just heat, and the usual saltiness and copper that Harry would expect from anyone. Malfoy tensed beneath him, and then reached up a hand and gripped Harry's neck, pulling him forwards, mashing their mouths more firmly together.

Harry opened his mouth to—make some sort of noise. He didn't know what it would have actually been, because the next moment Malfoy's tongue touched his and the kiss grew harder, deeper, stronger.

And Harry shuddered with awareness that fizzled down to his nerve endings, because he could see Malfoy's eyes fully now, and the fierce light in them enthralled him far more than the taste of his mouth.

This was someone who might stand up against him when Harry tried to coddle him. This was someone who would argue with him the way Ginny had, but in the case of Ginny, their arguments had destroyed their relationship; Harry knew that he and Malfoy would always row, so it might be _part _of their relationship. Maybe.

Malfoy, angry and impetuous and hard-headed and loud as he was, might match all in Harry that was angry—

_His mouth open as he barked instructions at Hermione not to interfere with his life anymore—_

And impetuous—

_He leaped onto the platform beside Discipula to defend the Malfoys—_

And hard-headed—

_He had still thought that Malfoy must not be really attracted to him even after Malfoy had claimed he was, and sounded serious about it—_

And loud—

_His voice as he yelled at Malfoy, in a way that he never would have done if he had thought Malfoy was just another annoyance like Rita Skeeter or one of his fans who wanted to "love" him—_

It was Malfoy's eyes, and not the kiss, that told him that. Harry _had _always felt better when he could see them.

Then the kiss broke, and Malfoy stood smoothly and said, "What I _need _is an hour alone. Potter. Granger." He nodded to both of them and moved away through the door out of the house before either of them could say anything.

Harry blinked, and sat down.

And waited.


	28. Waiting

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Eight—Waiting_

"I don't think that accomplished quite what you wanted it to," Hermione said.

Harry glanced wryly at her. She'd picked up a book and pretended to be absorbed in it a short while ago, but he had known she wasn't really. Now she had laid it down and stopped pretending, so he decided he could talk to her. "If you mean persuaded him that I wasn't his fantasy, I don't know," he said. "On the other hand, maybe he decided that he doesn't want to work with us anymore. Maybe he won't come back."

Hermione sniffed. "You do have a lack of trust in him."

"Well, _yeah_," Harry said, after staring at her a bit. "Considering that he cursed me and all."

Hermione sighed. "He didn't know what the consequences of his spell would be. I hope that you'll be able to forgive him for that."

Harry rolled his eyes so hard that he thought it would probably hurt if he did it again anytime soon. "Hermione, can I ask why it matters so much to you if I forgive him or not? You've told me time and again that the intention behind a spell doesn't matter, not if it has bad consequences. I know there have been legal defenses based on that. Why is Malfoy different?"

Hermione massaged the cover of her book as though it would give her the answers. Then she said, "He shows me—I think a see way out for you with him."

"A way out of what?" Harry leaned forwards, more interested in her answer than he had thought he would be. This was an odd new line of discussion.

"I've been worried about you for a while," Hermione said, looking at the book instead of him. That wasn't unusual, but the way her fingers were tightening about the edge of the page was, Harry thought. She might crumple it if she wasn't careful, and that was something he had almost _never _seen Hermione do to a book. "Yes, you have your career as a barrister, or at least you will once you finish your studies, but what other than that? You broke up with Ginny. You're living here with us and seem perfectly content to do so—"

Harry interrupted with narrowed eyes. "If you want me to move out, Hermione, I will, but you could ask me in a less passive-aggressive way."

Hermione exhaled hard. "It's not that," she said. "I love having you here, Harry. But I wonder when you'll have a home and family of your own, and you don't seem to move closer to that by staying here with us."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "You don't have children, either."

"I have the potential of having children," Hermione said. "I'm married. I have someone I love. You could be so _happy_, Harry, if you had someone who did that for you, and I know you've talked about wanting a family."

"Which I can't have with Malfoy," Harry pointed out.

"A kind of family, then." Hermione glanced at him. "Do you know what you're going to be doing five years from now?"

"Defending people in trials."

Hermione sighed. "I meant, the people you would be living with, the family you would have, the people you'd be dating."

Harry shook his head back. He could see the reason she was worried, yes, because Ron was acting like that at the moment: still recovering from the war, still not getting ready to have a permanent career. He had Hermione, though, while Harry had the career and no one to date. Hermione, who had both, probably thought there was something missing for both of them. She had the right to talk to Ron like that if he'd put up with it, since he was her husband, but Harry was a friend and didn't appreciate being urged towards someone who had cursed him simply because that person showed interest and was available.

"I don't know what I'll be doing," he said. "At the moment, Malfoy is looking more possible just because he challenges me the way I'd like to be challenged." The rest of what he'd learned during that kiss, he was keeping to himself for the moment. He didn't think he could put it in understandable words, anyway. "But I don't have to make every single decision this moment."

"No," Hermione said, frowning reproachfully at him. "But some sort of direction would be nice."

"It's _my _decision," Harry said, loudly, because she wasn't paying attention to objections in a normal tone of voice. "Not yours."

"I know that, but—"

"At the moment, Hermione," Harry said, "you're not being a friend, you're being an interfering busybody. I'll make the decisions when I want to make them. I don't _want _to plan everything out right now. I don't know what I'll be doing in five years, and that's fine. If you want me to move out, just say so, but you don't actually get a say in anything else. All _right_?"

Hermione's nostrils flared and she clamped her mouth down so hard that Harry thought she was probably hurting her tongue. Then she sighed, and a lot of the stiffness seemed to flood out of her body at once. "Sorry, Harry," she murmured. "I think I felt—with Ron lazing around and not choosing a future, I didn't want to see you do the same thing."

Silently rejoicing that he'd guessed right about the source of her concern, Harry waved a hand. "I think even Ron will choose one when he's ready," he said. "In the meantime, he has you, and that's worth a hell of a lot."

Hermione gave him a tiny smile. Harry felt he could relax in turn, then. They'd made some progress, and soon the dreams and the troublesome matter of Malfoy, too, would be behind them.

The door opened then, and Malfoy stepped back into the room.

Harry stared at him. Somehow, that was the one thing he hadn't been prepared to face. A triumph with Hermione should have been balanced out by a loss with Malfoy. Or something like that.

Malfoy looked between them as he thought he thought they might have been planning to ambush him, then stepped closer and kicked the door shut. "I've thought about it," he said.

"Yes?" Harry became aware that he was holding his breath and forced it out again with a rush. _What a silly habit._

"I want to try being with you," Malfoy said. "But I'm giving myself a timeline. If we can get past the screaming and the shouting and the sniping by the time your dreams are cured, then I'll keep trying. If not, then I'm going to walk away, and it doesn't matter what I have to do, travel around the world or brew an experimental potion or _Obliviate _my own mind. I'm going to do what I have to do to break myself free."

"That sounds reasonable," Harry said, and it did. It really did. He didn't know, from the sideways look that Malfoy gave him, if the git believed him, but then, Harry had never been good at controlling his facial expression even when he was sincere. "And I think I might like to try being with you, too."

Malfoy paused, then handed him a faint smile. Harry imagined the ways it could grow and become stronger, and was content.

"Good that you're going to stick around that long, at least," said Hermione briskly. "Because I think the dreams depend on _you_ resolving your feelings for Harry, Malfoy, one way or another, and not on Harry doing anything."

"Not even confronting Discipula with my knowledge and freeing the Malfoys?" Harry protested. "That's doing something."

"It would depend on what you did," Hermione said. "But you remember, what we're concerned about is how your body reacts when your mind starts to wake up. Not what you do in the dreams."

"You were, for a long time," Harry said, and interrupted as Hermione started to shake her head and say something impatient. "No. I want to know why you're so much less concerned about the content of the dreams all of a sudden."

"Because you've gone as far as you can with it," Malfoy said, his eyes hooded as if he were reading Hermione's mind and transferring the information to Harry. Even though it was probably just part of the general mystique that he was trying to project, Harry would still have liked it better if he could have seen Malfoy's eyes. "Because you recognize now that trying to help fictional people, or sacrificing yourself to help anyone who asks, isn't the best thing. You've learned better."

"Hermione?" Harry asked, turning his head.

"Yes, basically," she said. "And because I _do _think that resolving the feelings of the caster, which were tangled in the dreams all along even when we didn't notice, is the most important thing now. You can end the storyline of the dreams. It's important for you. But your survival depends on what Malfoy does."

Harry cast Malfoy an uneasy glance. He didn't like hearing that, though he wondered if Malfoy might relish the power of the role. What happened if he changed his mind or decided that his personal timeline should end before the end of the dreams, though? Harry had never liked being dependent on anyone else.

Malfoy's eyelids were lifted this time, his eyes clear. He gave Harry a single, shining, spectacular glance. It flamed. It said that Harry had _better _trust in his promise and show that he had learned better, because if he tried to take control of the situation, then Malfoy would walk away.

Or maybe it said that Harry should trust Malfoy to keep his promise about the timeline, for the sake of his selfish goals as much as ending the dreams. Or maybe it was a look of simple desire. Harry had never been all that good at reading his enemies' minds, actually.

He looked away again in embarrassment, and fixed on Hermione's face. "All right. If you _really _think that we can get this right, and end the dreams."

"Yes," Hermione said. "I'm sorry that I haven't explained myself before, Harry, or if I've done things that made you feel like a baby. I'm trying not to do it this time. You'll work on the dreams from the inside, and Malfoy will work on them from the outside. It's the best course, and it means that you have a chance of doing what you feel you need to do for the dream people while still surviving the transition back to the outer world."

"And showing that you can trust someone who exists," Malfoy added, which, Harry reckoned, was the message he had been supposed to pick up from that earlier stare.

"As long as you prove trustworthy," he said. "You haven't so far, much."

Malfoy bowed his head and blew through his nostrils, his fingers flexing back and forth in what looked like a regular pattern. Harry wondered if he was reminding himself that he _had _done things like keep the nature of the dream potion from Harry.

"I said I would stay," he said. "And I will work on the problem. I want to be free from this nightmare of tortured feelings as much as you do."

"Fine," Harry said, biting back the temptation to say that at least Malfoy didn't have _actual _nightmares from it, and turned to Hermione. "Does this mean that I can stop taking the Dreamless Sleep?"

She nodded. "But I think both I and Malfoy should get some rest now, so as to watch over you when you sleep tonight."

Harry nodded in resignation. Malfoy watching over him was an inescapable thing, and better than Malfoy actually intruding into his dreams.

Hermione went on chattering away, making plans and issuing instructions. Harry let her run on, because it pleased her, and because he knew that once he got into the dreams, then some things would _have _to change. Hermione just couldn't control every factor or make plans for every contingency.

And because he wanted to watch Malfoy.

Malfoy watched him back, with a long, slow, deep gaze that seemed to Harry to have the weight of contempt behind it. He didn't know if it actually did. He wondered if he would ever be able to read Malfoy, and if it was a problem that he didn't communicate effortlessly with someone who wanted him the way Ron did with Hermione.

When Hermione finally finished her talk and left the room to take a nap, Malfoy stood up. Harry watched him walk over, his steps slow and heavy, and then halt by his chair. Harry stared up at him and felt his pulse hammering in his throat, faster than it should be when, really, Malfoy was the one who'd made the decisions and the timeline and Harry was the one who'd tried to drive him away at first.

"Are you going to stay here and nap, or go home?" Harry asked, for the sake of saying something.

"Here," Malfoy said. "A bed on a couch will suit me, and I would just as soon not move far from you. Why haven't you told your friends about the abuse you suffered?"

Harry grimaced. He should have _known _that Malfoy would wield the memories of the Dursleys he'd seen against Harry, but he would have preferred a different time if it had to happen. "They know," he answered. "Ron saw the bars on my window in second year. Both of them know that I didn't want to be there, that I was deliriously happy every time I could escape Privet Drive for the summer. Just because _you're _seeing it for the first time and no one's ever blabbed it to the _Daily Prophet _doesn't mean that it's a secret to other people, Malfoy."

Malfoy shook his head. "I don't think they know the depth or the extent of it," he murmured. "I know how to look at memories with that potion and see how close they are to the forefront of the dreamer's mind, whether he often thinks about them, whether he's shared them with someone or not. You haven't shared them with many people."

Harry shrugged. "They aren't influencing my dreams, if you'll notice. I was never born in that universe, so I can't have spent time with the Dursleys."

Malfoy stared hard at him. "And you think that means that they don't influence your behavior, or your actions?"

"The dreams are the problem that we have to deal with first," Harry said. "Well, that and your feelings about the dreams. Do you really think that we should be talking about this yet? Why would I want to, when you might leave, carrying my confession with you?"

Malfoy's jaw rippled with the force he used to clench it. "Fine," he said. "But think about it. Whether or not you discuss it with me, whether or not I stay, it's still something that you'll have to face sooner or later."

He swept out of the room. Harry shook his head at Malfoy's back. He might be resolved to change, the same way Harry was resolved to change the way he coddled people, but in the same way that Harry would fail occasionally, Malfoy couldn't help touching on weird and inappropriate subjects.

* * *

It hadn't been hard to figure out where Discipula lived; Ministry records were kept updated, and the information Hermione had left with him included her address and Apparition coordinates. Harry waited for long moments after the Apparition had ended, leaning against the stone wall beside him so he could consider her house.

It was a small, neat cottage, considerably smaller than Harry would have thought she'd live in, though he reckoned she could have made it larger with wizardspace on the inside. The walls bore climbing ivy and climbing roses. Done for effect, Harry thought, because here and there he caught the shimmer of a glamour that probably disguised bare stones or curling and browning leaves. There was a wall around the garden, too, and it shone with wards like barbed wire. The garden itself looked like a strange mixture of vegetables, wild green things that were valuable only as Potions ingredients, and flowers. There was a massive pole in the middle of it, with a sundial on top. Harry didn't know why.

He'd been watching for a few hours, but no one had come in or out. Harry squared his shoulders and marched forwards. He might not be able to just knock on the front door and ask his questions, but if Discipula wouldn't come out to him, then he would have to go in to her.

He stepped up to the front gate and waited. The wards on it spat and hissed like angry cats when they saw him. Just for fun, Harry hissed back in Parseltongue and watched the wards freeze, quivering, as if they'd heard a danger signal.

"Come in, Mr. Evans. Or should I call you Mr. Potter? You should have known that no one could keep those eyes and hair disguised for long."

Harry looked up. Discipula stood in the front door of her home, her hand poised on the door itself, her hair done up in a complicated mixture of twirls that was meant to look casual but which Harry thought probably took a lot of effort. She wore casual golden robes, and on her shoulder, a tiny swallow watched Harry with bright eyes.

"Your wards don't appear to like me," Harry said.

"Oh, dear." Discipula drew her wand, and Harry kept his hand near his. She whispered something, and the wards on the gate disappeared—the visible ones, at least. Harry wouldn't move forwards for a minute or so, while he reached out with hearing and that sense of magic the Aurors had trained into him and felt for whether that was true. "No reaction to my announcement?" she continued lightly. "Or are you used to hearing people call you that, wherever you grew up?"

Harry smiled, decided the gate was safe, and stepped inside. "Is there anyone else here?" he asked. "An audience could overhear something you don't intend them to."

Discipula's eyes narrowed in what looked like honest amusement. "And you think you can keep me from telling whoever I want to tell?" she asked, touching the swallow on the back. It hopped away from her and flew over to sit on the sundial, cocking its head wisely at Harry all the while. "Oh, I grant you, you might succeed in winning freedom for at least one of the Malfoys. But once I mention the resemblance, then someone else will see it, and then another person, and then you will have too many questions to deal with to consider threatening me."

"Someone else already saw it." Harry estimated the distance between them, decided that he could see most spells coming, and stopped where he was.

"Who?" Discipula's smile didn't waver, but her eyes narrowed in what looked like anticipation, as if she thought that she'd like to share the joke with the other person in on the secret.

"Woburn."

Whoever Discipula had expected, it hadn't been that. She clutched harder at the door and swallowed. Then she said, "And what of it? I expect that he knows many secrets, and will not willingly share them. To me would belong the honor and the credit of first mentioning it, while he is still negotiating his bribes."

"He'll mention it to those who can offer him a bribe in return," Harry said, and this time estimated how close her hand was to her wand. A comfortable distance away, he thought, and relaxed. "But he's not the one I learned this from. He sent me to someone else. And when I offered _him_ the full and complete story of my life, not just what he could guess based on my eyes and hair, he gave me something in return."

"Woburn knows only the rich, they say." Discipula made a dismissive motion with her hand. "And no doubt, you'll need money if you intend to keep on defending the Malfoys."

"He told me who you really were," Harry said softly.

Discipula didn't move for long moments, and she was so good at concealing her reactions that Harry would have thought she was merely thinking over an interesting tidbit of new information if he hadn't been the one who offered it. Her fingers tapped out a slow, steady rhythm on the door, and then she sighed and shook her head. "And that is all you have to tell me? I allowed myself to imagine it would be more dramatic than that. Anyone can know my family background, my—"

"The fact that you fought in the war and have the right to call yourself a heroine?" Harry asked. "Or the fact that you didn't do it because you're a half-blood?"

This time, Discipula closed her eyes, but her voice continued flat and uninflected. "No one will believe you if you say that."

"Without proof, no," Harry agreed. "But I have the proof, beginning with the Ministry records you altered."

Discipula opened her eyes. Harry fought not to take a step backwards. Not even from Voldemort himself had he ever received such a stare of flat and uncompromising hatred.

"You have my gratitude for giving me a new enemy," Discipula said. "And the fear that what you ask will be greater than what I can provide."

Harry let his hand drop openly to his wand now. "What I want is for you to 'advise' the Wizengamot that they should let Draco and Narcissa go," he said. "They did nothing wrong, not compared to Lucius. I don't want you to beg for him, because that would push the gambit too far, and the Wizengamot wouldn't believe you changing your mind. But I saw you. You were playing it safe when it came to them. You always knew that you might lose, and that would mean it paid to keep an open mind—seemingly—about them, and the chance to appear generous and gracious. You can do this."

Discipula watched him in utter, absolute silence. Then she shook her head slightly and said, "I cannot control the Wizengamot."

"Bollocks," Harry said. "The only reason you haven't advanced further and faster—tried to become Minister, for instance—is concern about what someone digging into your background might find. But you don't need to change anything for this. Just act on some of the lines that you left open for yourself, walk those paths, rather than others. I'm not asking for much," he added, deciding that he rather liked the venomous sweetness his own voice had taken on. "Just that you change your mind on something you always knew you might have to alter it on."

Discipula clenched her fist once, then opened it and turned it over. Harry imagined scraps of torn paper fluttering to the ground.

"I imagine that you will spread this far and wide, if I do not," she said, almost conversationally.

"You have a good imagination," Harry said solemnly.

Discipula turned her head away. Her shoulders moved with her breathing, but nothing else about her seemed to. Harry had the sudden vision of a chained and dangerous animal testing the length of its bonds without moving.

He knew that he couldn't trust her, and so he moved on to the second part of his bargain.

"I'm willing to give you a vow that I'll leave after this, and not tell your secret to anyone else, and not trouble you again," he said. "As long as you swear one that you won't hurt the Malfoys after this."

She turned and stared at him, and Harry knew that he had caught her attention. He smiled, a bit grimly. Someone like Discipula would always think she could get out of trouble with a bargain. Well, he would reinforce her tendencies and win the freedom that he was determined to have for Narcissa and Draco.

And get her used to the sort of bargain she would have to make with Hermione.

"We'll have to find someone else to be a Bonder," Discipula said at last.

Harry nodded. "Of course. Why don't you go and fetch them?" Then he leaned back against the sundial, prepared to wait.

Discipula departed with another of those hateful glances. This time, Harry didn't allow himself to be impressed.

_Keep on doing that, and she might actually think she has a hold over you._


	29. Winding to The End

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Nine—Winding to the End_

"Mr. Evans."

Discipula's voice still held the hatred, but buried this time beneath a tight, firm mask of goodwill. Harry looked up and smiled. She was walking down the garden path towards him with a tall woman trailing behind her who kept looking at Harry curiously. After a moment, Harry recognized her as the witch who had been in daffodil robes during the trial, and seated among the Wizengamot. She looked much more normal out of them.

"Mr. Evans," she said, and put out her hand for him to shake. "I'm Katherine Noonan. Estelle here said that you have a vow to make to each other?"

It took Harry a moment to remember that "Estelle" was Discipula's given name. When he did, then he could nod, smile blandly, and say, "Indeed. Has she asked you to be our Bonder, Wizengamot Member Noonan?" He knew that they didn't require such formal titles—at least, the members of the Wizengamot he had met in his world didn't—but preemptive flattery was never a bad thing.

Noonan laughed, and the sound rang in Harry's ears and seemed to trickle down to caress his face. He wondered if it was some sort of magical effect, and resolved to watch out for it if it was. "Yes, she has. And you can call me Katherine." Noonan studied him for a moment with her head on one side and one eye squinted so far shut that Harry thought the rolls of skin on her face would consume it. "Which one are you, I wonder?" she asked.

Although the question didn't sound as though it was addressed to him, Harry had the feeling that she wanted him to ask. "What do you mean, Katherine?"

"Are you her enemy or her ally?" Noonan asked. "Because those are the only two kinds of people I can see asking her to swear the Vow. Or, rather, the only two kinds of people I can see her agreeing to swear a Vow to."

"Enough, Katherine." Discipula swept past her and took up a stance with her hand held out stiffly. "You'll come here, Mr. Evans?"

Harry nodded and walked over, taking Noonan's speculative gaze on his back as another sign that Discipula wouldn't try to rid the world of him right now. She would probably do that with no witnesses. In fact, Harry was surprised she had asked someone who was part of the Wizengamot to be their Bonder, rather than one of her flunkies, or Longbottom—

And then Harry smiled grimly. Discipula was still trying to pretend that everything was all right. If Hermione—this world's Hermione—was right, then the tottering structure of lies that convinced her she was doing the right thing was far more vulnerable, and far more important, to her than the idea that someone might find out the truth. She had been found out, she could do nothing about that, but she could try to assure that her response to the threat was all lawful and above-board.

Harry waited until she turned towards him, and then smiled. Discipula stared and pointedly turned her head away. Harry reached out and clasped her hand. Her palm was covered with cold sweat, making him wish that he could wipe his hand off on his trousers. Well, for now, he would have to put up with it. He had put up with worse.

Noonan coughed theatrically and waved her wand over their hands, murmuring something that Harry couldn't make out. "Now," she said, "you'll have to tell me the promises that you want to make to each other."

Discipula met Harry's eyes. "Why don't you go first, Mr.—Evans?"

Harry nodded. If Discipula was trying to make him afraid that she would break away before she could make her side of the Vow, then she shouldn't have brought Noonan along. Here was someone whose testimony against her would be powerful and had the potential to be devastating. "All right. What promises do you want me to make?"

Discipula's jaw trembled, then clenched. "That you'll share what've you discovered about me with no one else. That you'll leave me in peace once this case is done. That you won't—that you won't retain the copies of the record that you said you'd made."

Noonan was practically buzzing with curiosity, but Harry only nodded again. He didn't have any objection to that, since Hermione already knew and her copies of the records would be able to do harm to Discipula long after his were destroyed. "Fine. I swear that I will share what I have discovered about you with no one else." He also didn't think that that vow was a problem, because it said nothing about people he might _already _have told.

A thin line of fire shot out from Noonan's wand and bound their wrists together. Discipula stared at it desperately, as if it were her only hope. It might be, for all Harry knew.

"I swear that I'll leave you in peace once this case is done," produced a second ring of fire. Discipula closed her eyes, the sweat Harry had felt on her hand standing out on her forehead. Strange that she would let herself go so in front of Noonan, Harry thought, but then again, perhaps the emotions were simply too strong for her to control.

"I won't retain the copies of the record that I said I made."

The third ring of fire blossomed and tied off the knot. Noonan nodded with the grave air that Harry tended to associate with McGonagall when someone had completed a task satisfactorily. "Good. Now, Mr. Evans. Your turn."

Harry looked up and into Discipula's face. She returned his glance without a flinch, without a murmur. He almost could have found it in him to admire her, if he didn't have so many reasons to despise her.

"That you will speak to the Wizengamot about your newfound sympathy for Narcissa and Draco Malfoy," Harry said. "That you won't make any attempt to harass the Malfoys after their case is done. That you won't prosecute anyone else because of me, or because of what I told you."

Discipula nodded. She looked sick now, and Harry wasn't surprised when she reached out with one hand behind her to support herself on the sundial. Noonan moved around so that she could see Discipula's face, but then Discipula turned her head away so that Noonan was staring at the back of her skull instead.

"Very well," Noonan said. "Will you make the first vow, please, Estelle?" She had a hurry in the back of her voice, Harry thought, as though she was getting impatient with not being able to figure out what Discipula was doing this for.

"I will speak to the Wizengamot about my newfound sympathy for Narcissa and Draco Malfoy." Discipula's voice was dead. The fire that encircled their hands seemed to spark less brightly than the fire had done for Harry. He narrowed his eyes.

"Is this going to affect it?" he asked Noonan. "That she's making the vows in that tone of voice?"

"It shouldn't." Noonan paused in pushing her hair out of her face and swiveled her head so that she was staring at Discipula full on. "Of course, it would help if anyone would _tell _me why these vows are being made in the first place."

Discipula tightened her grip on Harry's hand until the bones under his skin creaked, and shook her head.

"Very well." Noonan held up her wand again, muttering something under her breath. The only word Harry could pick out was "young."

"I won't make any attempt to harass the Malfoys after this case is done," said Discipula.

The sparks this time seemed even fainter, but Harry reminded himself that Noonan seemed to know what she was doing, and the _important _thing was that Discipula probably wouldn't dare test the Vows, in case they held her after all.

And he would be gone from the dreams after this. Draco and Narcissa would have to fight their own battles. There was only so much he could do.

"I won't prosecute anyone else because of you, or because of what you told me."

As the fire coiled around them, Discipula briefly lifted her eyes so that Harry was looking straight into them. He flinched at the venom and hatred there. It wasn't as bad as before, when Discipula had had the chance to simply stare at him without warning, but it was bad enough. He knew that she would try to find some way around the Vows, some ambiguity in the wording, some way to attack. He wondered for a moment if he had really done all he could to protect the Malfoys, Hermione, even Ron.

But then he reminded himself, again, that, real world he had touched in his dreams or not, there had to be a point when he backed away and left people to fight their own battles. He didn't know what would happen, whether Ron would go to Neville with his information about the battles, whether Hermione would spread the truth if Discipula wouldn't agree to bargain with her—although Harry thought Discipula would, her fear and hatred of the truth was so strong—whether the Malfoys would always be safe. Draco might not think Harry had done enough because he hadn't even tried to free Lucius.

But he had to leave it behind eventually. He had come here for a specific purpose, to defend the Malfoys, and he had done that—not fairly, not in the courtroom the way that his future barrister work would (mostly) have to be done, but in fighting against a biased opponent, he had done the best he could.

And his best was what people sometimes had to be content with.

Discipula stepped back from him the moment the magic would let them do so, shuddering and wringing her hand. Noonan turned her head slowly, to stare at both of them, and then gave a wistful sigh.

"You won't tell me what that was about?" she asked. "At all?"

"You'll know someday, Katherine," Discipula said in a thick voice. She shut her eyes, as though she was afraid of Harry seeing any more of her emotions, and held out her hand. The swallow flew from the sundial back to her shoulder, still peering at Harry. Harry wondered for a moment if it was the Animagus form of one of Discipula's friends—although he thought she would have sent it away if it was—or a familiar. The way that Discipula stroked its back and the way it looked at him said that maybe she would send it after him if she could do that without violating the oath.

Well, it wouldn't matter. Harry would be gone from the dreams. Strange how he had to keep reminding himself of that.

_Well, maybe it's better than having to face Malfoy and my feelings for him._

Noonan Apparated. Discipula opened her mouth as though she would say one thing more, and Harry braced himself for a tirade of abuse. But in the end, she chose turning her back on him and walking away as the more dramatic course.

Harry shrugged and closed his eyes. He was strangely tired, as though the activity in his dreams was finally beginning to deprive him of real sleep. As the dream dissolved, colors running into each other like wet paint, he had time for a fleeting thought:

_Let's hope that Malfoy does what he's supposed to do._

* * *

Harry woke with his body twitching the way it only had during battle, or in the aftermath of the Cruciatus Curse.

He gasped for air first thing, and was surprised when he found it. But he couldn't control his muscles; his legs were jerking and flapping, and his arms reacting as though someone had run a strong electric current through them. He turned his head and saw Malfoy sitting in a chair nearby, leaning forwards to stare at him while his hands clasped each other hard enough to make grinding noises.

Harry didn't think he was in immediate danger of dying, unless he managed to crack his bones with his contortions. He could only stare at Malfoy, though, because he didn't know what was happening or what would happen next.

And Malfoy was the key to it all.

Harry hated having to depend on him, but it was better than not knowing what was going on.

"What's—happening to me?" he asked. He was amazed that he could control his jaws well enough for them to work.

Malfoy started as though Harry had woken him from deep sleep, but Harry knew he hadn't done any such thing and ignored the implication that he had. Malfoy was trying to make him feel guilty, and Harry had had enough of that.

"My uncertainty, I think," Malfoy said, looking at Harry's jerking arms with no discernible expression. Harry banged his wrist on the bedframe and winced. Malfoy tensed a little more, but didn't look inspired to make up his mind any more quickly. "I still can't decide what I want from you, and your body is reacting to it."

Harry closed his eyes in weariness. "Of course," he said. "Of course it would bloody be that. Look, Malfoy, maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you should just make up your mind to walk away, and that would be enough for the spell."

"I'll make up my mind about what I want to make it up about," Malfoy said haughtily. Harry opened his mouth to say that he could see why Malfoy hadn't taken up public speaking after the war, but Malfoy was continuing. "Besides, I doubt that would be enough. I have to make a final resolution. That's what the spell wants, and the dreams desire. And that's what's giving me trouble. Every time I make a decision, I think of a time when it might not apply, or something I want that it doesn't cover."

"And that's your only guiding principle?" Harry asked in disbelief. "What you want?" He tried to ignore the way that even his hair seemed to stand on end, aiming away from his head like a covey of small arrows.

Malfoy smiled, but his eyes were dark. "What else should I use?" he answered. "We've talked about how I never took your wants into consideration, and then misunderstood them when I did. I have as many pros as cons in my mind, as many wishes to walk away as to stay. So I'm balanced between decision and indecision, the way that your body is balanced between motion and stillness right now."

Harry ground his teeth. "I don't really see the stillness."

Malfoy moved a step closer to the bed and stood looking down at him without answering. Harry bit his lip so that he could be quiet and stared back, wondering if it was the best course to argue with someone who held Harry's future in his hands.

"There's so much to admire about you," Malfoy murmured. "The stubbornness, the heroism, the ability to keep going through changes and challenges that would have killed anyone else." He reached out and brushed a lock of hair back from Harry's forehead, then reached further down and clutched one of Harry's hands. It stilled immediately under his touch, and Harry sighed in relief, flexing his fingers. Malfoy traced his thumb over the back of the knuckles. "Those are the qualities that I keep coming back to."

"And on the other side?" Harry asked quietly, meeting Malfoy's eyes. He had said there were cons, and Harry could think of plenty himself, starting with but not limited to the different Houses they'd been in, the opposite sides of the war they'd been on.

"You didn't notice me," Malfoy whispered. "I was reduced to magic to attract your attention, something that wouldn't have happened with anyone else I've tried to court. You make me face things about myself that I'd rather not look at."

Harry blinked. _That _was new, and not something he'd thought to hear Malfoy admit even if it was true. "What?"

Malfoy took it as a specific question rather than a general expression of confusion, which Harry suspected was the right way to get it across, and leaned down, closer to him. Harry found his eyes unfocusing for a moment, and then reorienting on Malfoy's face. Malfoy had the right to talk about his stubbornness, he reckoned, but it was nothing compared to the expression that Malfoy wore just then.

"I have to admit that I made mistakes," Malfoy said. "Casting the spell on you in the first place. Lying when I should have told the truth. I know why I did it; I was afraid that you would never listen to me or pay attention to me if I admitted that I'd cast the spell. And I honestly thought it had failed. I never anticipated that it would cause the dreams." He was silent for a moment, finger still tracing across Harry's hand.

"I know," Harry said, trying to make his voice gentle instead of impatient. "But everyone makes mistakes."

"Not of this magnitude," Malfoy said. "Then I went on making them. I should have been wiser than that. I should have known how to resolve this before now."

Harry privately agreed, but suspected that saying so aloud right now wouldn't be the smartest move. He remained still instead, and Malfoy surveyed his prone body with a pensive expression, now and then shaking his head as if he assumed that Harry was privy to his internal conflict.

"It's unchangeable," he whispered. "That's what I fear most. That I'll make the wrong decision and resent it for the rest of my life."

"Oh, is that what you're afraid of?" Harry asked, relieved to hear Malfoy say something he understood. "You ought to know that I thought the same thing, once."

Malfoy's face went through several changes of color and expression before he shook his head. "But you were _right. _The war rode on your shoulders. I wasn't carrying anything like the same burden."

"Yes, but I thought that way about other things, too," Harry said. The rest of his body was almost still, he noticed. He wondered if that was because Malfoy was actually closer to making a decision, or because he was too focused on Harry's words for his thoughts to dart around. Well, fine. Either would work, and anything that would keep his hands from banging against the bed, or his head doing the same thing to injure him, was fine with Harry. "I thought that I was making a mistake when Ginny and I broke up, even though I knew that we didn't work together. I was afraid of alienating my friends. I was afraid when I left the Aurors, because what if I was making the wrong choice?"

Malfoy frowned at him. "And you think you've learned better?" he asked skeptically. "From what I can see, you don't know yourself very well, and you still act like that."

Harry shook his head impatiently. "You're not listening. I was almost paralyzed with fear sometimes, wondering if I was making mistakes. But I learned that I had to make the decisions anyway, and then to cope with those mistakes. And—this is what I wasn't thinking about—I _could _have gone back to the Aurors if it turned out that being a barrister wasn't what I wanted, or I could have asked Ginny to get back together with me if I really did love her." Malfoy's eyes narrowed, but Harry ignored that. "Making a mistake like that is really unforgivable only if the other people _don't _forgive you for it. Not just because you feel like it is."

Malfoy studied him in silence, eyes so doubtful that Harry thought he would probably demand another explanation, or simply reject the one Harry had offered. Harry's left arm was starting to tremble again. He willed it to lie as still as possible, and went on staring back at Malfoy.

"But you never showed that," Malfoy said at last. "You say that you were afraid, but—you always say that you don't regret not being an Auror."

Harry rolled his eyes. "How would you know?"

"That's what you said in your interviews for the _Prophet_," Malfoy said.

Harry rolled his eyes again. He was going to hurt himself if that kept on, he thought, but then again, Malfoy should stop handing him straight lines if he didn't want to be made fun of. "And we all know how truthful I was in those," he said. "How truthful the _Prophet _always is when it's reporting on me, besides. No, Draco, I felt the fear. But I made the decision anyway, because my courage is stronger than my fear."

Malfoy jerked back with a snarl. Harry wasn't entirely sure if his words or his using Malfoy's first name had caused that, at least until Malfoy spoke again. "Of course you would think that I was a coward."

"At the moment, you're behaving like one," Harry said, and matched him stare for stare.

"You've never had to face rejection like this," Malfoy said, but in a tone that made it sound as though he was trying to convince himself rather than anyone else. "Knowing that the man you're obsessed with could cut you to pieces with a word."

"I want you to settle your feelings about me because I want to stop having these dreams, yes," Harry said. "But I also want you to settle it for _yourself. _It's not good for you to keep obsessing about me like this. It's not good for you to keep thinking about it. I want you to move on. And you can only do that if you make a choice, whether or not you think rejection is going to happen as a result of that choice."

Malfoy stared at him with narrowed eyes. Then he said, "_Are _you going to reject me?"

"Not right now," Harry said cheerfully, and nearly laughed at the look on Malfoy's face. "You could have just _asked, _you know, if you were that worried," he said, and then lifted a hand that shook but remained mostly under his control as Malfoy opened his mouth to complain. "The problem is that I can't give you exactly what you want. The perfect love affair that you were probably imagining, the perfect attention that you want all the time, the perfect forgiving of our past history. I don't know if it'll last."

Malfoy's body gave a single, fierce spasm, and then stilled. Harry watched him, and nodded as much as he could when his head was wavering back and forth again.

That was it. He hadn't seen it until he started _thinking, _until he let himself see the similarities as well as differences between Malfoy in the real world and Draco in the dream, but it was there.

Malfoy and Draco were both hesitant to claim what they wanted—Harry's attention, independence from their parents—because of fear of the consequences. They both needed support. Harry hadn't treated Draco enough like an adult to give him the level of support he wanted, and that had hurt him. And he hadn't responded to Malfoy's overtures, either, a different kind and level of hurt.

But they hadn't ever thought about trying on their own, because of those consequences. They had both wanted to plan out something that would allow them to get what they wanted without pain.

Harry was sympathetic to that. How much time had he spent trying to avoid having people think he was crazy, or that he was dating someone he really wasn't, or that he was a traitor to his calling as hero for not becoming an Auror? Not to mention that he'd felt stupid plenty of times when he was fighting Voldemort and when he was studying to become a barrister beside Hermione and when he'd fought with his friends.

But feeling stupid wasn't the end of the world. Pain wasn't the end of the world. People could forgive the stupid things Harry had done if they wanted to.

And he could give Malfoy a chance if he wanted. He just didn't know if it would be a permanent chance.

Abruptly, his body stopped moving about. Malfoy stared down at him with half-lidded eyes—Harry suffered a brief flash of irritation—and then slowly nodded.

"Yes," Malfoy said. "All right. I'll risk it. Will you be with me?"

"We can try a date," Harry said, and saw something of Draco's startled sweetness, just for a moment, in Malfoy's eyes.


	30. A Delicate Dance

Thank you again for all the reviews! This is the last chapter of _Sleepless. _I hope you enjoyed reading along.

_Chapter Thirty—A Delicate Dance_

"How did it go?"

Harry ignored Hermione's voice for the moment, instead shrugging off his cloak and hanging it on the peg next to the door that had always been reserved for him. He stretched his arms above his head, and winced as a twinge worked its way down the middle of his back. He had hurt himself that morning reaching for a book on one of the high shelves instead of Summoning it—he'd been _sure _he could get it by himself—and then it hadn't been improved when Malfoy slammed him against the wall outside the pub.

"Harry!"

From the sound of it, Hermione was practically bouncing in her seat at the table, she wanted to know how his date with Malfoy had gone so badly. Harry turned around and considered her in some amusement. Hermione immediately tried to compose herself, folding her hands in her lap and assuming a pious expression. Harry wasn't fooled for a second, and he didn't think anyone would be who knew Hermione well.

"It went fine," Harry said, and pretended that he would walk past her into the drawing room without saying anything more.

Hermione didn't bother casting her binding charm verbally. The first Harry knew about it was when the ropes lashed out and pinned him against the far wall, wrapping around his arms and legs to the point that he didn't have any give. He rolled his eyes at Hermione, since that was a movement he could still make, and she stepped towards him threateningly, the wand held out at throat height.

"You don't get to say that and then just _leave_," she said. "What was it like? Where did you go? If you'll remember, you were so secretive that you didn't even tell me the name of the restaurant."

"What makes you think we went to a restaurant?" Harry asked, though of course they had. He didn't think Malfoy would really trust Harry in his home at the moment.

"Because where else would you go?" Hermione asked, proving that she knew him well enough. She reached out, and the tip of her wand did pass beneath his chin this time. "Harry. Come on. There can't be anything all that scandalous to conceal, not compared to what Malfoy did to win you."

"Win me," Harry said. "As if I was a prize."

Hermione flushed and waved her wand again, this time severing the ropes. Harry rubbed his wrists and soothed his injured dignity, not looking at her.

"What was it like?" Hermione asked, but in a more subdued voice than before. "Come on, Harry. Was he horrible? Are you ever going to see him again? I knew you wouldn't have sex yet, so it's not as though you have to keep _those _details from me."

Harry grinned at her, remembering some of the times that Hermione had sneaked into their bedroom at Hogwarts, while Ron's roommates put up Silencing Charms or virtuously pretended to be asleep. "Why would I? You and Ron have shared your sex life with me in many and various colors. I should return the favor."

"I _told _him to study Silencing Charms!" Hermione's flush deepened. "That wasn't my fault!" Before Harry could tease her further about how she'd obviously been too caught up in what she was doing to even check for the Silencing Charms the way she should have, she leaned forwards insistently. "Well? What was it like?"

"I don't call him Draco yet," Harry said. "He's still Malfoy to me, and probably will for a little while."

"That answers some questions," Hermione said, though Harry thought it was nothing but the barest truth. "But what else?"

Harry shrugged helplessly. He wasn't certain how to convey the feeling of sitting n the other side of the table from someone who had cursed him, staring intently into his eyes, making awkward conversation, letting minutes pass when neither of them said anything because they were both thinking about the past. It had been weird enough to live through.

Hermione sighed and stepped back. Harry thought she'd given up until she said, "Well, do you think that he could make you happy, at least? Is that possible?"

Harry considered for a moment, then gave her the same answer he would have if Ron or Malfoy had asked him. "It's too early to tell yet."

Hermione hugged him then, something he hadn't expected and which it took him a moment to get over before he put his arms around her. "Of course it is," she murmured comfortingly into his ear. "I hope that you don't feel I'm trying to run your life for you again, Harry."

"Not run it, and not ruin it." Harry smoothed her hair back. "I know, Hermione. But it's hard for us all to let go of bad habits. I caught myself thinking tonight about what I would have to give Malfoy so that he wouldn't be too angry with me during the moments when I slip up and say something stupid. But I can't always do that. It's the same thing I did with Ginny."

"I think he might like it if you let him take care of you sometimes," Hermione said tentatively.

_She told me that once about Ginny, too. _Harry had disregarded the advice then, because he hadn't thought he needed to listen to anything anyone else said about him and Ginny. They were going along _fine, _thank you, and Harry thought they always would. But their relationship had crumbled the next year.

He shook his head to get himself out of the self-punishing mood, and then said, "I'm going to let him try next week."

"Really?" Hermione pulled back from him, her eyes bright. "How? Or is that a secret yet?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "I told him I'd let him choose the place for the date, as long as it was something he thought would make both of us comfortable, and then he could Apparate me. So I don't know where we're going."

Hermione nodded slowly, as though in time to some piece of music that Harry couldn't hear. "I think he'd like that," she said. Then she clasped his hands again and pressed down so that she was rubbing her fingers across the backs of his wrists. "Oh, Harry, I hope it goes well!"

"You and me both," Harry muttered, and then escaped to his bedroom so that he could think about their date full of stares, silences, moments when they both expected something to explode, only from the waves of Harry's magic bursting around them…

And the moments when Malfoy smiled, and Harry found out that he could call him Draco in his mind, after all.

He hovered on the edge of sleep for a long time that night, but went over the edge without fear. Now that Malfoy had come to terms with his feelings and decided that he wanted to date Harry after all, Harry didn't think he would have the dreams again.

* * *

"I thought coming to the place where you first appeared in this world would have some effect."

Harry started and turned around. A moment ago, he thought, he had been in the middle of a normal nightmare, one that featured him pounding down a dark tunnel with the assurance that Ginny was in the Chamber of Secrets again and that he would never reach her in time to keep her alive. But now he was definitely in one of the dreams. He recognized the large lobby in the center of the building where the Malfoys had been kept, except this time it was empty of people, and the platform didn't hold Discipula intent on destroying a bunch of lives.

No, wait, it did hold one person. Draco jumped down from it and walked towards Harry, eyes intent on his face.

Harry stared back, and swallowed. The silence hanging between them was different from the silence that had hung between him and Malfoy on their date. This was full of more recriminations than uncertainty, and Draco's shoulders were braced as if he were walking into battle. For that matter, Harry thought, his shoulders were braced much the same way. He made an effort to shake them out and bring them back into a normal position. "Draco," he said. "How are you?"

"Free."

The air left Harry's body in a rush, and he would have staggered back, only there was nothing to actually support him here, and he didn't want to look as though he was about to fall. "That's wonderful!" he said, and Draco paused and looked at him as if wondering whether the happiness in his voice was fake. It wasn't, though, and Harry went on to ask the next most important question. "What about your mother?"

"Free, although under house arrest." Draco paused, and his face worked through some complicated emotions. "My father is in prison. In the end, the evidence of his crimes proved too much for the Wizengamot."

Harry nodded. He had thought that would happen, which was why he hadn't even tried to bind Discipula to it.

"I was told that our freedom was your doing, by someone who should know." Draco gave him an icicle-clear glance. "Your doing, even though you didn't bother to show up for the final day of the trial."

"I visit this world in my dreams," Harry said simply. He was beginning to wonder about that. Did this visit mean that Malfoy _hadn't _settled his feelings for Harry after all, and they would have to go through the whole tedious process again? Or did it mean something else? "The visits were the result of a curse. When the caster took the curse off—" all right, that was a simple description, but he didn't feel much like telling Draco about Malfoy, either "—then I stopped coming."

"Yet, here you are." Draco pushed his hands into his robe pockets and did some more staring at him.

"Here I am," Harry echoed, and did his best to smile at Draco. He didn't know what else to do. Then one of those piercing glances came back to him, and he winced despite himself. "Look—" he began, starting towards Draco with his hand extended.

Draco switched his shriveling glance to Harry's hand. Harry dropped it, flushing more than a little.

"You didn't try to free my father," Draco said softly. "You influenced Discipula, which none of us could do, but which isn't the action of a hero. And you weren't there. You weren't _there _to see us lose his freedom, to watch his face as it closed." He turned away again, but this was a more complete turn, and his hands were shivering at his sides. "He blames us for being free when he couldn't get there. I know he does."

"Draco," Harry began, and stopped. He wanted to say that he was sorry, but he had the feeling that it would be rejected. Actions spoke louder than words, and Draco must have thought that Harry's actions said Harry wasn't interested in him and his family any longer.

Which, really…Harry wasn't. He had thought that he had done his best by them and that he wouldn't have to worry anymore. Why was he here, then, and what kind of world had his dreams brought him to?

"I prayed for a hero," Draco said. "I prayed for someone who would help us stand up to our tormentors and win our freedom for us. I thought you were it." He was speaking hurriedly now, cold, clipped words that glowed silver, as though he expected someone to come along and interrupt. _That interrupter might be me, _Harry thought. "But then you _left_. And you treated me as a child all along, just as they did."

"I am sorry about that," Harry said. He remembered that he had been attracted to Draco, once, but it was hard to imagine now—although this Draco was more like the Malfoy of the real world than the boy he had been. "I couldn't—control it. And I thought I had done as much of my job as I could."

Draco spun around, hair flying behind him. His eyes were wild, and Harry tried to back up a step without alerting him that that was what he was doing.

"What about us?" Draco's breath was speeding up, and his words were no longer cold. "What about if I wanted more from you than to be a job?" His voice sank, and he forced the last part of his speech out. "What if I wanted more from you, and I thought you wanted more from me? What if I _need _you?"

_ The magic word,_ Harry thought, staring at him and able to taste the salt and copper on his tongue. _Or it used to be._

He shook his head. "I can't be what you need," he said. "I know that now. I thought I could, but—I was fooling myself. If nothing else, the barrier between our worlds is simply too big. And I can't stay here."

"Even if I asked?' Draco said. "Because I am. Asking." He looked down at his hands, which were shaking, and then hooked them together behind his back, out of Harry's line of sight. "Doing nothing but asking. Do you think you can find the strength within yourself to say yes?"

Harry shook his head again. "Why would you _want _me?" he asked. "When you thought I betrayed and abandoned you, and I'm from another world to boot?"

Draco lifted his head. He had a sort of ragged dignity, Harry thought, and that might have been enough to seduce him back when he was still infatuated. Of course, being told that Draco needed his help still would have done most of the seducing on its own. "Because in the last two years, you're the only person who's looked at me with the desire to do something other than reduce me to a load of raw meat or a means to an end," he said. "Because you said that you believed I could stand independently of my parents, and I need someone with that belief. I don't think _I _have it."

"I can't," Harry said.

"You have the choice." Draco's eyes were steady on him. "If you go back to your own world when you wake up, you still don't vanish here. I've never noticed more than a small moment of distraction. Until you vanished, you were always here, always with us, or moving around somewhere else. You _could _stay here. It's your own free will that's making you say that you can't."

The world seemed to reel around Harry, and he wondered. If these dreams were real—and they might be, if they were continuing after Malfoy had supposedly made all his choices—then Draco might be a real person in all sorts of ways. And if he was right that Harry could live here, could have a second life…

He didn't realize he was backing away until Draco asked in a cracked voice, "Where are you going?"

Harry made himself stop retreating, and blinked. _Actions speak louder than words. _He shook his head. "I made the decision once," he said. "This is a temptation, in some ways." _To stay in a dream world. To stay with someone who needs me, someone I was attracted to first instead of the other way around. _"But it would be a cop-out."

"For you." Draco's voice had sunk like a dying flame, and he turned his head away. "Because you think that your world matters more."

"For you, too," Harry said. "You got through the last of the trial even though you didn't have my support. I want you to stand on your own. I want you to be more than your parents' plaything, yes. You were absolutely right. But _I _was treating you like a plaything, too. Your perceptions during the trial weren't wrong. I always treated you like too much of a child."

Draco looked torn somewhere between pleased because Harry was saying that he was right and angry at the rest of his words. And devastated. Harry swallowed, but made himself keep looking at the devastated look, because this wasn't just the result of Malfoy's curse. This was all his doing, and he had to be willing to live with that.

"It's hard," Draco whispered.

"I know. I'm sorry." Harry wanted to step forwards and hug him one more time, but he was too afraid of that gesture being misunderstood. He stood where he was and gave Draco an awkward smile, instead. "But you will get through this. I have that much faith in your strength."

Draco stood there with his head bowed, as if listening. Harry could only hope that he was listening to his better side, his stronger side, instead of Harry's voice. Ultimately, _he _would have to make the decision on his own, too.

He finally looked up and nodded, once. Harry thought he would speak—his mouth softened as if he would—but in the end he turned his back and walked away, spine so straight that Harry could have bounced coins off it. The world began to dissolve and tatter around Harry as he went, as if he was the linchpin holding it together.

Harry closed his eyes and bid a silent farewell to that universe he would never see again and to all the people in it, real, unreal, or somewhere in between. He wondered if he would ever know the truth of that. He doubted he would.

It was time to go home.

* * *

"So you had _another _dream?"

Harry nodded and stepped away from Malfoy, looking around. He had decided to let him Apparate the two of them without protest—although, until the last minute, he had seriously considered protesting anyway—and now he wanted to see where they were. But all he could make out was a vast dark room with only a few gleams of candlelight around the edges, which didn't help much.

"I don't understand." From the tone in Malfoy's voice, Harry knew that he was folding his arms and speaking with a frown. He didn't bother looking over to confirm that, though. Why, when he could read him so well? "I thought—I was sure that they would go away when I came to terms with my feelings for you."

"Maybe they were a real place after all." Harry leaned back and squinted, and this time he could make out torches along the walls, although he also knew they weren't lit. "Maybe Draco's need, or his family's need, summoned me."

Malfoy moved a step towards him, then stepped. Harry listened to the rustle and sway of his clothing and wondered what the problem was now.

"Do you still wish that you were back with him?" Malfoy's voice was low and intense, and Harry knew exactly why he was asking the question.

Harry turned around, shaking his head. "Didn't you listen to me? I was tempted. He offered to be with me, if that was what I wanted. It was certainly what he _thought _he needed. I can't imagine him offering otherwise. But I refused. I wanted to come back here. I wanted to go on this date with you."

Malfoy bowed his head, and his shoulders slumped into a relaxed posture that Harry hadn't seen so far, despite his much better acquaintance with the git's body language in the past few days. "I see," he whispered.

"Are you happy?" Harry asked. He thought so, but he wanted to be sure.

Malfoy stepped closer and pulled Harry towards him with one arm, studying him carefully in return. Harry lifted his chin high and stared back. He actually didn't think _he _was that hard to understand, but Malfoy had been acting as if he was.

"Yes," Malfoy whispered, and kissed him.

It wasn't their first kiss since the one they'd shared the day of the last dream—well, the second-to-last dream, as Harry had to think of it now—but it was the most comprehensive. Harry could taste the warmth in Malfoy's mouth, the saltiness, the copper, the wash of strength that came back to him when Malfoy's tongue pushed in at his. He tightened his hand on Malfoy's neck in return and strained up against him, returning as good as he got. Malfoy had another think coming if he believed that Harry would be submissive.

Malfoy pulled back, panting and looking both surprised and smug. He let one hand linger on Harry's neck for a moment, as though he was feeling for his pulse, and then pulled away and nodded. "I believe you," he said.

Harry considered him for a moment, decided he really did, and nodded at the darkness and the stone walls around them. "What is this place?"

Malfoy looked absurdly pleased. _Because I didn't ask before this, or because I didn't use a _Lumos _to find out? _Harry wondered. There were still lots of things he didn't understand. Malfoy lifted his wand, and the light blazed out from it in response to a nonverbal charm, throwing both illumination and shadows back from the far corners.

Harry caught his breath. It looked more like a cavern than a finished cave, despite the obvious joints in the stone of the walls. In the center of the cavern was a large, rough platform, like an altar, and crouching on it was a meticulously carved series of figures: lion, snake, badger, eagle. The same animals shone on the walls, one to each side, wings spread wide or paws lifted or teeth bared or body coiled according to their nature.

"What is this place?" Harry whispered. He might have thought it was inside Hogwarts, but he knew that Malfoy couldn't have Apparated them there.

"Some people talk about a place that the Founders met to discuss their ideas for founding a school of magic and make their pact," Malfoy said simply, tightening his arm around Harry's shoulders. "I think I've found it."

Harry shook his head in wonder. "And why come here?"

Malfoy stepped nearer to him. Harry wondered if it was for reassurance, and felt the slight tremble in his body before he answered, "Do you see the way the snake and lion are positioned? There's a room in Hogwarts like this, and they're on the walls opposite from one another. _Opposing _one another."

Harry looked. The lion and the snake stood next to each other on the altar, and their walls were right next to each other, too. He nodded.

"Slytherin and Gryffindor were friends, once," Malfoy said, even more carefully than before. "Before their rupture. I'd like to think that—friendship could grow between us. At the least. I wanted to show you that someone else once thought that wasn't impossible."

Harry turned towards him and studied his face. "You still think of me as the embodiment of Gryffindor?" he asked.

"Not so much anymore." Malfoy's gaze was steady. "But I did once, and you're still the person who's closest to it that I'll ever meet. Not to mention that I think I'm probably your embodiment of Slytherin."

"The closest to it I'll ever meet," Harry echoed, and slid a hand up Malfoy's arm to squeeze his shoulder. "Thank you. Now, I think you have a house-elf who can carry food to us here?"

Malfoy smirked and clapped his hands. Immediately the torches on the walls lit, and a table was revealed across the floor from the altar, with cushioned chairs, a dinner service, and plates piled with steaming food already in residence.

Malfoy waited, shoulders tense, as if he thought that Harry would object to it. Harry watched him for a moment.

No, he didn't have the simplicity, or the sweetness, or the youth of the dream Draco. But when they weren't actively trying to annoy each other, Harry thought, they could get along. And he found what he saw and learned when they were getting along interesting enough to keep trying.

"Thank you," he said, and moved forwards to the table. Malfoy followed, looking dazed.

Harry paused with one hand on the back of his chair—Malfoy had made a motion as though to pull it out for him, but there were limits to what Harry would allow—and added, "Thank you, Draco."

Draco's slow, confused smile still filled the room with light. In that smile was every emotion Harry himself felt at the moment.

_This might not work. But it could._

**The End.**


End file.
